


Determined Spirits

by Lizardbeth



Series: Determined Spirits [1]
Category: Castle, V (2009)
Genre: Alien Invasion, Crossover, F/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Season/Series 02, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:10:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardbeth/pseuds/Lizardbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day begins with a robbery-homicide.  But this is the day normal ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity: Though AU, this starts just after Castle "Overkill" and before the V series begins. I also was forced by a very vague canon to make up a lot of the Visitor biology and society that I use in this story.
> 
> It was inspired because Michael Trucco played both Tom Demming and John May, and I couldn't resist trying to put them together...

Kate took deep breaths and stretched, feeling deliciously loose and content as the aftershocks faded from their early morning wake-up call.

Beside her Tom breathed out. "I could do that all day."

"Oh yeah?" she propped her head up and looked at him. His eyes were closed and the look on his face was meditative. "You could? All day?" She reached out to trail a lazy finger down the middle of his chest with appreciation.

He cracked open his eyes, grinning. "Well, most of the day. I'm not superman." She made a face of pretended disappointment. But then his grin faded, as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath again. "That is such a good feeling."

"Oh, yes," she agreed.

He stirred a little to hold her hand and tug her closer, so she put a leg over his and her arm across his chest, practically draped across him. He hummed in pleasure. "Mm, you're warm."

His free hand caressed down her back slowly and the curve of her hip and leg as if he couldn't get enough of touching her.

He was cooling already, so it was pleasant to lay there and listen to him breathe. It had been too long since she'd spent a night so pleasurable and fun. Tom had definitely lived up to the promise that had been tacit in their wrestling - he knew what he was doing and seemed to enjoy making her feel as much as he could.

"We do have to get up and go to work eventually," she reminded him.

He put a hand to his forehead and gave a little cough. "I think I'm feverish. And I need someone to take care of me while I'm sick. How about it, Doctor Beckett?" He looked up at her with a hopeful face.

She smiled but shook her head. "Work, Demming. Bad guys don't put themselves in jail."

"That's very inconsiderate of them." He pouted and she leaned in, unable to resist the humor in those bright eyes. They kissed until she pulled away, knowing they really were going to have to call in sick if she didn't start making a move to get up.

"You want the shower first?" he asked. "The blue towel's clean, I promise."

"Thanks." She gathered up her clothes and took them to the bathroom. It was definitely a bachelor pad bathroom, with not a spare toothbrush or any scents that weren't woodsy, but she made do. She was going to have to stop by her place and change, or she'd never hear the end of it.

When she emerged, Tom had slipped into his boxers and was sitting at the dining table in front of his laptop, typing away. She stood in the doorway a moment, admiring. Somehow he looked larger without his clothes and definitely fitter. She was pretty sure there were laws against those shoulders. "All yours," she said.

Without looking away from the screen, he said, "Great, thanks. The water's hot if you want tea or there's instant coffee in the cabinet."

Oh, right, she forgot he didn't drink coffee. "Freak," she muttered.

His lips twitched. "I don't usually eat breakfast, but there's toast, if you want."

"You run a shabby hotel, Demming," she teased and came up behind him. "I'll manage. What are you typing?"

"I have a blog," he answered. "This is a draft of what I'm going to post later. I wanted to get it down, while I had the words."

"A blog?" she asked. "Really? You talk about cases?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. I talk about... I don't know, life? Living? I know it sounds pretentious, but how I live my life is very important to me. To take each moment and feel it as it comes. As fully as I can."

He said the words with a somber earnestness that she hadn't heard from him yet, and he didn't act embarrassed by it, clearly meaning every word deeply. She nodded and bent closer, leaning on his back to look over his shoulder at the screen.

She read: "_Yesterday I saw a man and his daughter on the sidewalk. She was small, maybe three years old, and she was sobbing. The man was trying to calm her, patting her hair and her back. I couldn't tell if she was unhappy or she was hurt, so I stopped to ask if they needed help. The man shook his head and answered that she had lost her stuffed animal. It was precious to her - It wasn't an inanimate object, not to her. To her it was her baby, a playmate, a friend who would never leave her. Except this friend had left her after all and she felt sadness. We, as thinking feeling people, need to cultivate that sense of attachment to other people, to things we care about, and especially to this planet we live on. Love is our birthright and our bliss. And no one should try to take it from you_."

The words seemed to have some sort of physical weight pressing on her. If asked, last night, she would've said Tom Demming was a good cop, an attractive and intelligent man, and a fun and excellent lover, but hardly thoughtful. This was evidence of something deeper. She had the brief thought he was writing it to impress her, but they'd already slept together so it wasn't as if he needed to pretend to anything to get her back in the sack. But she was impressed anyway. "This is the kind of thing you post?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's what I ate for dinner. Sometimes it's going to the park or listening to music." He closed the laptop's lid and turned with a smile. "Sometimes it's the beautiful woman I saw punching the crap out of a bag."

She had to return his smile, feeling warm from his words though she knew he was trying to distract her from his hobby. "Oh, you are smooth," she murmured but bent down to kiss him anyway. Her hands slid down his bare shoulders, very tempted to do more because he had on no clothes, but forced herself to let go. "You better go shower."

He pulled himself away with a reluctant groan. "I think I'll have to write about the evil woman who's making me go work, when all I want to do is stay in bed with her all day," he muttered, meaning to be heard as he padded to the bathroom.

"Hurry up," she retorted, smiling.

While he was using the bathroom, she made herself Nescafe from the jar she found behind six different kinds of tea, and opened the fridge to see if there was something to put in it. Not surprisingly, it was pretty bare inside. There was an unopened quart of milk, but the expiration date was two weeks ago. Making a face, she left it on the counter. He was such a guy -- sour milk, no vegetables, but there was a six pack of beer and the steaks and chicken were fresh.

Shaking her head, she went back to the dining table/desk, which was stacked with case files, mail, his laptop, and a plastic animal cage where he kept his pet mice. She leaned down to find them, smiling when she saw them all curled together in a cute little ball of fluff in their wooden shavings. She tapped the plastic, but none of them stirred from their sleep.

She wandered over to his bookshelves. The organization seemed haphazard, with the Dalai Lama's books standing next to books on WWII, and poetry compendiums shelved beside books on modern weapons. There wasn't a single copy of any Richard Castle novel or any other novel anywhere in the collection that she could see.

The pictures on the wall were a matching pair - one of some forest with big trees and the light slanting down to the forest floor, and the other, a city at night where the skyscrapers were in a similar position to the trees. A third picture was of the Earth, taken from space. The only personal photo in the whole place was of him receiving his detective's shield. There were no pictures of his family or anything from his past, at all. And she frowned, wondering what had happened that he had cut himself off from them so completely.

She had a glimpse of him with a towel around his waist as he emerged from the bathroom to cross to the dresser. She licked her lips in remembrance. Even if it never went anywhere, there was no regretting last night.

He came out of the bedroom shrugging into his suit jacket, with his badge and gun already on his belt. "Ready to go?" he asked. "I assume you want to get home and change first?"

She nodded. "That way you can go in first. Let's keep this between us. The guys... they'll never leave it alone."

He let out a little snort of agreement. "Yeah, I don't need the gossip either. No problem. Though you know Esposito's already got a pool going, right?" He got a paper cup out of the cabinet and poured water in it from the electric pot on the counter, choosing a tea bag, and then lifting it to sniff at it with deep appreciation.

She didn't know, but she wasn't surprised. Esposito got a pool going on just about anything. She gestured to the cage. "I didn't ask last night-- what are their names?"

He glanced at them as if he'd forgotten they were there. "Names?" He paused and answered with a little smile, tapping the cage wall, "The mother is Anna. The second one I got turned out to be a boy, and now there are too many to name."

She laughed. "There are only six."

"You know that phrase, 'breed like rabbits'? Mice are worse. I give the extra back to the pet store. At least the reptiles eat well," he answered with a bit of a smile.

She felt sort of queasy at the thought that Tom was knowingly breeding mice to feed to other pets, but shrugged it off and changed the subject. "I couldn't help but notice there aren't any photos of your family," she said.

"Detecting, Detective Beckett?" he teased, in a weak effort to turn the question aside.

"It means something," she answered. "You know that. I wanted to know what, so I don't put my foot in it."

He acknowledged her point with a nod. "It means..." his face grew still and his eyes went distant, staring into some hurtful memory. "We don't get along. They're not like me and they don't approve of how I live my life. So I left them, a long time ago."

Though confused about how any family couldn't approve of a son who wrote blog posts about how people needed to care for each other more and whose day job was being a police officer, the set of Tom's jaw and the way he turned to the door told her he wasn't interested in pursuing the topic any further.

When she got to the station after stopping at her place, she found Tom already waiting with a small folder he waved at her, smiling enthusiastically. "I have a case. And, since it includes a homicide, chief has already suggested we team up."

"Let me guess," Castle said from the door. "The museum robbery?"

Kate turned to frown at him. "Museum robbery?"

"Uh, yeah," Tom said, sounding disappointed that Castle had stolen his thunder about telling her about the case. "How did you hear about it?"

"I got a call from the mayor," Castle said. "Two paintings and one dead security guard at the Museum of Fine Art."

"Right, that's the one." He frowned and shook his head. "I don't even know what was stolen yet."

"Well, then, we'd better get over there," Kate suggested.

* * *

Tom glanced aside at Kate, as they walked up the stairs to the museum. She was so vibrant, as if she glowed within her own life. He had written a post about that and the feeling of wanting to get to know someone better from that first sight. He had the odd impulse to tell her the truth. Not that he would, but he thought she'd be able to handle it.

She glanced back, and raised her eyebrows in silent question. He smiled at her, as if he'd been thinking of last night and this morning, and her question turned to a disapproving glare and she marched ahead of him.

He dropped his eyes to watch her walk, appreciating the movement of her hips and how confidently she walked in her boots.

"So," Castle started, coming up next to him. "How's it going?"

He slanted a look at Castle, suspicious of the sudden chattiness. "Fine. This looks like a great case. Most of mine are stop-and-robs, not stolen Old Masters."

Castle didn't rise to the bait of the case. "I called around, and nobody had anything but good things to say about you. C'mon, you gotta have some skeletons in your closet, or at least some vices? Nobody's that pure."

Tom smiled a little. _Oh, if you only knew..._ "I don't know about pure, but I'm pretty boring. I try to live like a decent human being, as much as I can." _And in my free time I try to inspire others of my race to embrace freedom and live their lives as decent human beings as well._

"There must be something," Castle persisted. "You eat kittens? You cheat at cards? You didn't send flowers for Mother's Day?"

"I've never eaten kittens." Though Tom was amused by how close Castle's little joke was to the truth. "I don't need to cheat at cards. And I never sent my mother flowers." His amusement died away at the memory. Anna had killed his mother. He had felt nothing but the mildest regret at the time and still couldn't muster up any sadness, though he had been one of her top warriors and fought hard for her. But as soon as the Bliss had broken, he had added that death to his mental list of things that Anna was wrong about.

"Well, there you go. I knew there had to be something wrong with you," Castle said, sounding smug but grinning, too, that he was teasing.

Kate was waiting for them at the top of the steps and had heard their talk. Knowing about his 'family issues', she changed the subject. "He's a writer, too, Castle, did you know that?"

"Really?" Castle asked, trying for neutral interest, but not quite hiding his irritation. "No kidding."

"It's a blog," Tom answered with a shrug, trying to brush it off. The last thing he needed was Castle poking his nose in any deeper. "It's no big deal."

"I read a bit of it," Kate continued, more to needle Castle than listen to Tom's desire to drop it. "It's very good. Inspiring."

Tom shot a look at Kate and tried for embarrassed. "Thanks, but it's a hobby. Daily life ruminations. It's not all that exciting."

But now neither of them were going to let it go. "I'd love to take a look," Castle said. "I could hook you up with an agent, if it's good. I can see it now --" he said with an expansive gesture, "how about, "Chicken Soup for the Detective Soul" maybe?"

That made him laugh, and then laugh again, thinking what he would call it. 'John May's Guide to Breaking the Addiction of Bliss and Learning to Live Free'. Too bad the audience was so small. Not to mention anyone buying the book would probably get killed.

Aloud, he answered, "Oh, no, thank you. Last thing I want is for my mutterings to be published."

"But if you put them online you want readers, right?" Castle persisted, following him closely as they went in the front doors. "And publishing online to a paper format is all the rage right now. I mean, look at that Julia Child blog-- it got made into a movie."

"Look, it's not that interesting, Castle. Sorry." Hoping that was enough to get both of them to drop it, he added, "Ah, that's Devon Sills, the museum director. Come on."

He walked off, hearing Castle complain, "But I want to read it! Beckett, tell me you remember the address?"

He felt amused as he went to do his job.

They spent a few hours at the museum checking the scene and learning about the stolen paintings, but as Beckett wrapped it up with Sills, Tom wandered back into the gallery. The empty spaces on the wall were obvious, and the evidence collection markers made it all seem wrong. His eyes swept over the Monet at the end, to look at the painting of the two children playing on the beach by Cassatt.

Beckett's footsteps moved across the hard floor toward him. "Hey, you done? Everyone else is already heading back to the station."

"Yeah," he agreed but didn't move yet. "I love this painting. It's the very essence of humanity to me, somehow."

She turned to look at it with a frown. "Kids?" she asked.

"Children playing. Something I didn't get to do," he admitted. Which was true, if a deep understatement. There was no play, for anyone. They weren't supposed to need diversion, because 'fun' wasn't something they should feel.

Her gaze moved to rest on him, not the painting. "Oh. That sounds sad."

"That's why I left. Among other reasons." He turned from the painting and they started back toward the main entrance. "I'm wondering whether the security guard interrupted the theft, or it only looks that way. It seemed awfully... staged, didn't it?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'm thinking he was the inside man they decided to get rid of. We'll have to do a background. Castle thinks we should look for the buyer, too, in case someone paid to have them stolen."

"Yeah, makes sense. I have some contacts who might be able to help figure out who could pull a job of this complexity." He and Kate headed for the archway, when he stopped and turned around again to look at the gallery.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I ... don't know," he murmured. He looked over the room, high above to the false skylight, the painted walls, the paintings that remained, and the two empty slots. He couldn't figure out what was wrong. "I've been in this gallery probably twenty times in the past few years. There's something different."

"You mean besides the missing paintings and the CSU team's crap lying around?" she asked.

"Besides that," he agreed. But the more he looked the less he seemed to see. "Damn it. I don't know what it is."

She patted his shoulder. "Let it rest. It'll come to you."

He shook his head, irritated, and turned away. "At least they didn't take my painting. That'd piss me off."

She frowned and turned to look again. "Mary Cassatt, right? And that's a freaking Monet. Why the hell didn't the thieves take them, too? Aren't they even more valuable?"

"There are two dozen haystack paintings," he told her as they started back toward the front. "So maybe that one isn't all that valuable comparatively, but it's still a Monet. I don't know. I'll have to ask some experts."

In the entrance lobby there was a group of people milling around, getting told that the museum was closed for the day. He scanned the twenty people, wondering if any of them might be the thief coming back to gloat.

A young man standing off to the side was staring at him, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. The instant their eyes met, Tom realized he'd been recognized and his breath froze in his chest. He put a hand on his holster, wishing he could shoot right now. But he couldn't; he was going to have to get rid of Kate and draw the agent somewhere else to kill him before he could contact anyone else.

Then it got worse, when the kid murmured, "Dad?"

The adult features fell into a familiar pattern that he'd last seen ten years ago, and he blurted, "James?"

That slip was enough for James to know he was right. "Dad!"

Fuck. The full horror fell on him, then. James now knew it was a lie.

But the lie had been to protect them both, and all that could be undone now that James had seen him. He turned abruptly, hurrying the other way, back past the security cordon.

"Tom?" Kate tried to follow in confusion, and he heard James as well, "Dad? Wait!"

As soon as he was out of sight, he burst into a sprint, cursing the huge galleries which left no exits and no place to hide. Damn it. Then he found the narrow hall with the coat check and the restrooms. Without hesitation, he ran into the women's room.

It was empty, and he waited, wondering if James would follow or if security would block him. When nothing happened, the panic faded. He took deeper breaths, calming down.

He stood there in the glare of the white lights of the empty bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror.

Sometimes he forgot that everything he saw was a mask. It had become familiar, and it was something that was now his own, but it was still a mask. Underneath the skin was his own blood and flesh and bone, and eyes that saw more colors and a heart that pumped blood that wasn't human. This face was a lie.

But the lie that hurt the worst of all was the one he had done to James. After everything James had taught him about the value of life and love, he'd given the son he loved a father's false suicide in exchange.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up to see Kate's text. WHERE R U?

Praying James wasn't with her, he texted back: women's room, and pushed send.

Then, in the little time it would take for her to reach him, he thought about what he could tell her.

The door slammed open. He could see in the mirror that at least she was alone.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded. "And what are you doing in here?"

"I figured it wasn't the first place anyone would look," he answered, with a shrug.

She put her hands on her hips, not mollified. "What's going on? That kid called you 'dad' and you ran away from him."

"I know," he murmured and shut his eyes, but didn't wish the pain away. Grief and guilt were emotions, and ones he had to experience, too. "I should've bluffed it out, but I was surprised. He... he has to believe I'm dead, Kate. For his own safety."

"What? Your own son?"

"He's not mine by blood, but when he was a child, I was with his mother. I loved him like my own. But..." He stopped, took a deep breath, and turned to her to explain as truthfully as he could, "My family are terrible people and I wanted nothing to do with them. But ten years ago, that life found me anyway. I was afraid they'd kill James and his mother. I had to leave them. As far as they've known since then, I was dead. Until he saw me today." He let out a breath and tried not to think of how much danger James might put himself in if he started blabbing about how he'd seen his former step-dad. "Shit."

Kate listened and then asked, sounding shocked, as she put it together, "You're under witness protection?"

He paused and said, "Any answer I could give you would be a lie. So don't ask." The implication that he was in formal witness protection wasn't true, but it was certainly true that he was never going to be able to tell her the real truth about his past.

She thought about that and nodded, before demanding incredulously, "And you came to New York to hide?"

Which did sound stupid when she put it that way. "There aren't that many people who would recognize me. It was a risk. Of course, I never considered the little boy I remember, would grow up and move to the big city." He tried to smile wryly, while running through the scenarios in his head. As long as James didn't tell anyone, he'd be safe, and surely he'd come looking for "John May" first, and get stymied by the wrong name.

But that was a dangerous name to be tossing around. Damn it.

He turned on the water and splashed his face. If he got wind of a hunt, he'd have to disappear again. He lifted his face to look into the blue eyes which now seemed more familiar than his own. He didn't want to leave this life behind, but that was the price he paid for doing what he believed in.

"Is this going to make you leave?" she said.

He took the paper towels she handed him and dried his face. "Not if he's the only one, I don't think. But if word spreads... " It would probably take only a phone call from James to Lily that would trip the right recognition software to send someone to interrogate James and then it was a short leap to the museum robbery and the detectives assigned to the case. He let out a breath. "I have an exit plan. So if the worst happens, don't come looking."

"It's that bad?" she asked.

He laughed, a little bitterly. "Oh, it's worse. You shouldn't know this much."

"They would come after a NYPD detective? Seriously?"

"They would come after the pope."

She laughed, as if it were a joke, but when she saw the look on his face, she folded her hand around his and squeezed, surprising him with her gesture of compassion. "It'll be okay." Then she smiled at him. "Well, Castle was right, I guess. You were a bit too good to be true."

He stared at the mirror again, thinking of James and Lily. They certainly wouldn't be thinking he was good, after he'd abandoned them. "Yeah."

"Hey," she tugged him around to face her. "Y'know, it's okay, right? I don't mind a man with a mysterious past..." She tilted her head to kiss him, taking advantage of their solitude, with her hands sliding around his waist.

Her touch was a welcome solace and her scent was calming. He leaned into her, resting his head against hers. Of all the things he would miss if he had to run, she was the newest, but also what he would miss the most. He let her hold him up for a moment, before pulling away. "Let's go out the back way."

They left the museum through the door at the loading dock.

James was waiting for them. Tom felt a surge of pride -- the boy was smart.

This time, Tom didn't bother to run. His eyes held James' as he walked down the few steps to the street. "Hello, James."

"It really is you," James murmured, and his eyes were swimming in hurt and anger. "You're alive. You've been alive all this time."

Tom glanced in both directions in the alley to make sure no one was around, then nodded. "I -- yes. I'm sorry. I am so sorry, but I had no choice."

"Why?" James demanded and his lower lip was quivering. It about killed Tom to see him like that, as it drove home what he'd always known about how well James had taken his 'death.'

Aware that Kate was listening behind him, he asked James, "Do you remember the man who came to dinner that night?" It had been ten years, but he'd guess James had relived it in his mind, looking for clues to why his step-father had killed himself that same night. James looked briefly confused, then nodded.

Tom went on to explain, "He was there to kill me, James. He threatened to kill you and your mother unless I came quietly. I persuaded him to let me fake the suicide. I thought it would be better if I died, rather than vanish and leave you wondering what happened. I managed to escape, but ... I knew any contact with you would risk us both. So I had to go into hiding."

It was mostly the truth, and if he shut his eyes, he could see it again: standing in the dark, bidding goodbye to his life as John May.

 

* * *

 

The two watched his car go over the cliff into the sea.

"Do you feel that, Ryan?" John asked. "The wind? Can you taste the salt in it? It tastes like tears, the kind James and Lily will shed when they learn I'm dead. Tears of grief, tears of anger, of blaming themselves for not preventing this when it wasn't their fault at all. They'll never understand they changed me, and they taught me the true feeling of love. I hope you feel it, too, someday, and you'll understand that living without it isn't truly living at all."

Ryan swallowed and looked pained. John thought he had experienced Earth in the last year, enough to give him deep second-thoughts. But then he firmed up his jaw and said, "We have to go. They're expecting you. And then, John May, you will die."

"Then I'll die. But at least I've been alive. I've been whole." He turned away from the crash and held out his immolation suicide pill. It was easy enough to give away since he had something else. "Here. Let's go see Anna."

Ryan held out his hand automatically to take it, looking from the pill to John's face in confusion. "You're not going to fight me?"

"I could kill you, but why should I?" he returned calmly. "Killing you won't stop her from sending people after me until innocent humans get killed in the crossfire. I want to see her one last time, because I want to tell her my death isn't going to stop anything. I'm not forcing anyone to do anything. I might be leading the way, but our people are evolving their own nature, and the longer we're here, the truer that will be."

Ryan seemed a little reluctant as he escorted John into the shuttle. John took a deep breath of Earth air, letting that settle into his lungs, before the hatch closed. He didn't want to die, not with his work undone, but the chance for getting out of this was slim. The humans would say he had one last 'Hail Mary' pass, and if it failed, he was dead.

But that was the price he was willing to pay for the years of true bliss he'd spent with his family. And it was right that he face Anna one last time.

* * *

No one else seemed to exist in that moment when he confronted Anna. He had the strange thought that if only she were different, they could have been true mates, as humans did it, working together to change things for the better for everyone. If she had been different, he might have loved her.

If their people had been different, he might have loved his mother more and fought harder for her. She might still be alive if he'd felt something for her beyond blind adoration.

But he was glad he felt nothing for Anna but anger. She would never change. Of them all, she was the only one who didn't have to.

Anna's cold eyes looked into his. "You are a traitor." Her claws lashed across his face.

He didn't flinch or cower from her. "I've seen the truth. We can be more. We are thinking, feeling, living people, not mindless drones."

"You are an evolutionary throw-back," she hissed. "Primitive. Like these mammals."

"No, I'm what we should be," he retorted. "What we would be without your pheromones drugging everyone into passionless obedience."

"You reject the gift of Bliss?" she said. "You're not a traitor, you're insane."

He raised his voice a little, knowing he had only a little more time. "I reject your tool of control. I reject existing inside a small cold box, doing nothing, feeling nothing, when there's so much more we could learn. I embrace a new way of living."

He knew it was futile to argue with her, but then he wasn't trying to reach her. There were eight other people listening, and who knew how many could be watching from elsewhere, and he wanted them to hear.

She figured out that she'd let him speak too much. "Your heresy ends with you." She glanced at Joshua. "Skin him. Now."

"Here?" Joshua asked, with a touch of surprise.

"Yes, here. I want to watch."

John's heart lurched and he knew he had to do it now. He bit down hard, cracking the special pill he'd hidden in his cheek. He swallowed. It burned in his throat and stomach, and he gagged, nearly vomiting it up again. His guards dropped him and stepped away, as he fell to his knees.

"What's happening?" Anna snapped.

"Poison," Joshua answered.

"Stop him!" she ordered.

Joshua didn't move. "It's too late."

Fire. He had swallowed fire, and it was burning through him. He couldn't breathe.

Helplessly he choked on the fluid filling his lungs and coughed it up as bloody foam spewing from his mouth.

"Will he die?" Anna demanded and stepped away with a grimace of distaste, so it wouldn't touch her.

"He's dying now," Joshua said.

It certainly felt like dying. Still retching, he fell forward, unable to stop his fall with his hands bound behind his back, but managed to turn onto his side. He had thought he might need to put on a show of pain, to give Anna what she wanted, but it hurt so much all he could do was writhe and gasp for desperate breaths.

Anna said, "Excellent. And afterward, bring me his heart."

"As you wish, but I should warn you, the poison will contaminate his tissues. I do not recommend ingesting it."

"I see." She bent down to look into John's face. "Very well. Eliminate his body. I want nothing to remain but ashes."

The burning seemed to fade for a worse cold that crept through his muscles, freezing them rigid. He reminded himself that he knew this would happen, but it felt much more frightening than he had expected, to be on the floor, helpless, feeling his whole body come to a stop.

He didn't want to look at Joshua and give him away, so he focused on Anna, remembering what this was for. They'd had one victory mating to ensure her dominance over him after his queen's death. It should have resulted in his absolute loyalty to her; instead, it had resulted in an unexpected and precious queen egg and the first time he had felt something so deeply it had broken the Bliss.

Lisa should have been only Anna's daughter to him. Their genetic tie was only important in that Lisa would be the union of two Nests. Otherwise she was a future queen, one of the few in recent times, and that should've been all.

But she was _his_. The first time he'd seen her, some intense feeling rose up inside him and said she was his, and he couldn't forget.

Searing fire ripped through his nerves again, but he didn't have breath to cry out and couldn't move. His heart labored for every beat, feeling heavy and too large inside his chest.

Anna watched and looked vindictively pleased. "You could have been my right hand, John May. My defender," she murmured. "Instead, you die a traitor. And you will be forgotten."

Anna's face was blurring, the edges of his vision turning dark.

Lisa wasn't there, which was a little relief, since he didn't want to see her watch him die with not a spark of feeling on her face. He didn't know if she knew he had fathered her, not that it would matter to her. All she would care about was that a traitor was dying.

He did wish he could have seen her one last time, though.

That wistful thought was his last, as the pain tore through him again and pulled him down.

* * *

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus crossover time! If you know the show, enjoy. They'll be more of it in the next one.

Tom thought of Lisa, who he hadn't seen since she'd been a hatchling, and James, who'd opened him up to a greater world of understanding and emotion. Lisa was nearly grown now and he'd missed it all, as he'd missed James' becoming a man. It suddenly seemed like a very high price to pay -- but then, he would never have known or felt anything for them at all, if he hadn't done this. "I ... wish I could've watched you grow up," he confessed, looking at the young man standing before him. "I thought of you all the time."

Now James looked as if he was going to cry, as he blinked rapidly. "But why would anyone want to kill you?"

He shook his head in regret. "I... I was once a very different person, before I met you and your mother. I made some powerful enemies. And that's why -- "

James interrupted fiercely, "No! Don't say it. You can't tell me to forget and go home. Not after this, you owe me. You owe me my dad back, and my mom -- she's dead, did you know that? Five years ago. I had to live with my uncle and he was never half the dad you were. And I know I sound like I'm five, but... please don't go away again," he pleaded.

"Lily died?" he asked, stunned. He'd always imagined her being angry at him, but going on with her life. It felt like a heavy stone sitting on his chest, realizing she was gone. "Oh. I'm sorry, James. I didn't know."

He felt Kate's hand on his back suddenly, lightly pushing. "Give the kid a hug," she murmured.

Knowing this was a terrible idea to get re-connected, it was also a wonderful idea as he wrapped his arms around James and held him tight, inhaling his scent from his hair to bring it deep inside. "I've missed you," he whispered.

"I've missed you, too," James sniffled and wiped his face on Tom's jacket. They stood there for a few moments and then with a last pat, Tom pulled back, both hands on James' shoulders, and looked into his face.

"Now you need to listen to me," he said. "This is still incredibly dangerous. For you, and especially me. They may still be keeping an eye on you. So you can't tell anyone that you saw me. Because if you do, the best outcome is I'll have to run again. Or they'll kill me. So you can't tell, not a word. I'm working toward a day when it won't matter, but that day isn't here yet."

"I promise," James said, looking earnestly into his face. "But you won't disappear again?"

"No, I won't." He took a deep breath and squeezed James' shoulder. "I know this is hard to take in. I'm glad to see you again, but I'm so sorry that I got you mixed up in all this. It shouldn't be this way."

"Dad, I understand," James said, and John was relieved and proud at the look on James' face, but also stricken by calling him 'dad' .

"I don't deserve being called that, but thank you. It feels wonderful," Tom confessed. "I promise I'll contact you, under a name you won't know, but I'll use the word 'museum' so you'll know it's me. But please, don't come looking for me until I know the coast is clear."

James nodded, now very serious. "I get it. I -- I'm so glad you're alive."

"Not half as glad as I am to see you, James. You've turned into a fine young man, and that makes me prouder than I could ever have imagined before I met you. Now you go back around the front and you walk away, like nothing happened. Okay?"

"No, but I guess I have to. Please, don't let them win."

"I won't. Take care of yourself, James."

He watched James slowly walk away, looking back until he turned the corner. Then he felt Beckett at his shoulder.

"It's been ten years and you think the threat is still current?"

"These people don't forget, Kate. Not ever." But he couldn't help a small smile. "But I got away once, I can do it again."

 

* * *

John opened his eyes, aware he was somewhere on the ship and he felt horrible - his human skin felt too tight, and he was deeply aching everywhere as if the poison had scoured him on the inside. Every breath was like tiny, sharp claws in his lungs, and his head was pounding. But given that he shouldn't feel anything at all, he felt alive.

When he opened his mouth to talk, or maybe to groan, a hand stopped him. "Hush," Joshua said, moving close. "I know you're in some pain. I couldn't administer the antidote as quickly as I would've preferred."

"-- bought it?" he asked. His voice was raw and ragged, and it hurt like hell to talk.

Joshua nodded. "As you predicted, Anna grew bored with it once you were dead. Still, it was a close thing bringing you back."

The way he felt, John wasn't entirely sure coming back was a good thing. He'd been nearly eviscerated in battle and felt better than this. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on breathing because he knew he was going to have to move soon.

"We have to find a way to get you off the ship. Quickly." He injected John with something and a coolness spread across the pain, muting it. "Can you rise?"

It took a moment to coordinate his limbs, but with Joshua's help he sat up. Dizziness made the room seem to whirl around him, and he gripped the edge of the table he'd been lying on to keep from falling to the floor.

"I assume you have a plan?" Joshua asked.

"I thought you would have a plan," John said and put the heels of his hands to his head, trying to push out the massive headache and think. "I didn't expect it to work."

"Anna told me to reduce you to ashes," Joshua said. "So I have at least the leeway to bring your body on the gurney toward the incinerator. I could find you a weapon and you could fight your way to the shuttle bay."

"No, that would expose you to no purpose. I couldn't fight them all anyway." With the way he felt, he doubt he could take on more than one or two. There had to be a stealthier way. "I don't suppose you have another body lying around?"

"Yes, of course," Joshua answered. "Anna has only one answer to perceived treason, now that she has discovered how painful a method of execution it is. I was able to kill him first before skinning, this time."

John nodded, approving the mercy, but wishing it didn't have to be that way. "Good. Was he as notorious as I am?"

"There's no one as notorious as you," Joshua responded, with a touch of dry sarcasm that made John smile a little. But then Joshua blinked and nodded, understanding why John wanted the outer appearance of someone less known. "He was little known. But his human skin is too small to fit over yours."

"I only need his face."

"It won't bond, since the tissue is already dying," Joshua warned.

"Since I'm going to rip it off the instant I'm out of here, I don't care."

Joshua nodded slightly. "Very well. It might work." He went to the other room to prepare.

John waited, watching the outer door warily. If Anna or Marcus came in here, this was over. He might defeat Marcus on a good day, but this wasn't a good day, and he could never force himself to attack Anna, when she was the only mature queen in the Nest of the advance fleet.

Joshua returned and spread something on his skin - at first it was cold and clammy, then it started to burn. He clenched his jaw, breathing harshly through his teeth, as it felt like Joshua was dissolving the skin.

"Hold very still," Joshua warned and took the extra skin and tissue and laid it over John's face gently.

John clutched at the edge of the table on either side of him, and tried not to move, holding his breath as Joshua tried to smooth the false features over his own. He tucked the ends into John's nostrils and mouth, making him taste the bonding agent which was disgusting, but he knew that was the only way to hide the edges. It felt like plastic, like a mask, and it smelled of blood and a little bit of decay.

Joshua spent a little more time and used more of the bonding glue around his eyes, trying to get that right, then Joshua pulled his hand back and regarded him. "You don't look like him, but you don't look like you, either. There is a line at your temples and under your jaw, if anyone looks closely."

"If anyone's that close, it's going to be too late," he answered, finding that it was difficult to open his mouth to speak. At least his face had stopped feeling seared.

Joshua nodded and handed him a pile of clothes. "These were his."

John pulled the slacks and shirt on - both were too tight, made for a smaller body, and he kept his own shoes, but it would have to do.

Then they were ready. Joshua put the skinned body on the gurney and headed for the door. John stopped him with a hand. "No one must know, Joshua. Unless this fails and I truly die, but if it works, it stays a secret. I'll hide until the Arrival comes. Anna and Marcus have to believe I'm dead, so they don't come looking."

"I understand."

"Thank you. I'm glad you're with us."

Joshua's eyes met his. "To the death," he promised quietly. "I look to the day when you are Lisa's defender, John, and you can teach her how to bring us back to life."

John squeezed his shoulder. "Someday, little brother. I long for that day, too. Keep her safe."

Joshua opened the door, looked carefully for observers and pushed the sheet-covered corpse into the corridor. Without another word, he went left, and John went right, walking down the corridors. He tried to remember he was supposed to be a worker, not a defender, doing his job, feeling nothing... When the first people approached, anxiety skittered up his spine and it was hard to give way, when instinct called on him to assert his own primacy. But he dug his nails into his palm as a sharp reminder that now was not a good time to retreat to instincts, and he stepped aside, casting his eyes down and slumping to look smaller as he passed.

His disguise held, and he was glad for both Joshua's skill and, for once, Anna's policy of getting them all used to their new skins, since this would never have worked before the infiltration phase began.

His face started to itch, the bonding already starting to fail, and he hurried.

In the docking bay, he hid, considering how best to do this - openly or with stealth. Then, figuring quickness was his only ally at this point, he walked boldly up to the nearest shuttle which was preparing to depart.

The pilot glanced at him, as John sat down on the bench nearest the cockpit. "I didn't know we'd have a third passenger."

"Yes," John said shortly, and lowered his head to wait. The pilot accepted the answer, not requiring proof of orders as a human would.

Two more came on board, giving him casual dismissive glances as they sat down. John rested, knowing he was only going to get one chance at this. The female-skin drone was carrying a blade - she was a guard. He would have to take the blade first.

The pilot took them up. John tensed, wondering if his escape had been noticed, but the shuttlecraft departed the mothership smoothly. He didn't know whether they were headed to Earth or to another mothership, but it wouldn't matter once he had control of the ship.

The guard across the way said, "You. Your mammal skin is... loose. You can't go down to the surface looking like that."

"Loose?" he repeated and looked up as if he had no idea what she was talking about. "How can it be -- "

In midsentence, he launched himself off his bench, hands out to slam both of their heads back into the wall. He grabbed the handle of the blade and pulled it out of its sheath, right through the fabric of her pants and cutting her flesh. When he extended the swing, he ripped the blade across the pilot's throat.

The second drone blinked in shock but had enough time to get to his feet. "What are you -- traitor!" He managed to grab hold of John's blade hand, to keep it from him, but John's battle rage ignited, strengthened by his real anger at everything he'd lost today. Pain washed away, leaving only the kill. He grabbed the drone with his free hand around the throat and with a quick jerk, snapped his neck.

The guard was still alive and she came at him in a hissing fury, but he swept her flailing claws aside and slammed the blade through the ribs, into the heart, and out the other side.

Then he jerked the blade free and let the corpse fall to the floor. He was breathing a little harder than he should be.

He surveyed what he'd done. For once it was a relief to let the emotions slide away, and not try to feel them. They were dead, and he was alive, and he was pleased that he'd managed to accomplish it quickly, as weakened as he was from the poisoning.

Pushing the pilot's body out of the way, he sat down to figure out how to destroy the shuttle in such a way that he could escape and the rest would disappear.

Five minutes later, he had the engine locked into maximum acceleration into the ocean. It would either disintegrate on impact or sink to the bottom, and either way, no one would be recovering obviously murdered bodies from it. He opened the hatch, and the fierce wind ripped at him. Makeshift bag over his shoulder, and an escape parachute strapped on his back, he jumped into the sky.

He looked below at the land, as he floated downward. Earth was welcoming him home again.

 

* * *

 

Kate glanced at him. Tom looked distracted, but otherwise seemed surprisingly okay with having his past come out of nowhere and bite him on the ass. She thought she might be having a little more trouble with finding out that he had a secret past. It was one thing to send other people into witness protection, which had happened a few times in her career, but it was entirely something else to meet someone who had a new identity. She was extremely curious about his old identity and the circumstances of how he had been targeted. After all, she rarely saw people _before_ they were murdered. "You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine. It was... good to see him," he admitted softly. "I've always regretted leaving him behind. But it makes things harder."

She smiled a little, remembering him with James - so gentle, so ... dad-like. The basketball coaching suddenly made more sense. "You worry about him."

"I do. I wish I didn't, because he's a weakness that I don't know if I can afford, but... " he let out a soft sigh. "Funny, I was only with them three years. But those years changed my life."

"You said you weren't the same. What did you do before?" she asked.

He didn't answer at first, eying her, then gave a small smirk, purposefully lightening things up. "Are you kidding me? You have a badge. I'm not admitting to anything."

"Oh, come on," she coaxed and elbowed him. "Off the record. What'd you do? Accountant for the mob? Assassin?"

He chuckled. "You've been reading too many of Castle's books."

She put her hands on her hips. "You have a dark, mysterious past. You faked your own death. It's _totally_ one of his books."

Still smiling in amusement, he shook his head and teased, "I thought you hadn't read any of them. I'll have to tell him you're a fan."

She realized he'd tripped her up, and glared at him, threatening, "You say one word, Demming, one word --" Then she paused. "That's not your real name, is it?"

"Sure it is," he protested. "Now."

"Not the name you were born with," she corrected herself and heaved a disgruntled sigh. "And of course you're not going to tell me. But how about you tell me what book your life was, if it's not a Castle mystery?"

He thought about it for a moment and then answered, "_Hamlet_."

She wasn't sure she'd heard right. She expected him to say _The Godfather_ or something like that. "_Hamlet_? Seriously?" Then she thought about it for a moment and it didn't seem so ridiculous. There was that part with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sent to kill Hamlet, and he'd said his family were terrible people...

"Well, not exactly," he corrected with a flashing grin. "But certain elements, yes. And that's all the clues you get." The smile faded. "Look, I understand you're curious, Kate. And I wish you'd never found out, but please, let it go. I have my life now, and stirring up the past is only asking for trouble."

"All right, but so you know, I'm going to keep watch on you now," she said and took his hands in hers. "And I will take down anybody who threatens you."

He smiled and pulled her close. "I'd try to talk you out of it, but I know it's useless."

"Damn right."

"You're amazing," he murmured, and his hands slipped around her waist as his mouth dipped down to hers.

They shared a quick kiss and then headed back to the precinct, where she tried to forget Tom's secret past and deal with the case in the present. He went to his desk, and she climbed up to her floor and the case room, where Castle was waiting.

"Where've you been?" Castle greeted her. "And where's your boyfriend?" he asked, peering behind her as if Tom could be hiding back there.

She glanced up at the ceiling, praying for patience. "He went to make calls and run the victim. And it's still none of your business." He made a face, which made her smirk at him. She opened the folder and put up postcards of the stolen paintings onto the case board.

Two portraits: one of an old man by Vermeer, and one of a little rich girl and her mother in fancy dresses by Velasquez. She regarded them and shook her head. "Kind of boring paintings to kill someone over, aren't they?"

"They're still worth a lot of money. And that's what people kill over -- love and money." Then he corrected himself with a grimace. "Mostly money."

She thought of Tom and his concern that there were people who might still murder him if they found him. "And secrets," she added thoughtfully. "People kill to protect their secrets."

But the question was, what was the secret? What did Tom know that was worth killing him for, especially ten years later? Or was he overly paranoid and worried about a threat that would never materialize?

Castle interrupted her musing with a question about the timeline, and she started to write that information down as well to build their case.

* * *

At his desk, Tom started printing out the basic i.d. and criminal record of the security guard, filled in the warrant request for his financials and phone records, and then flipped through his contacts on his phone looking for the cell number for Special Agent Peter Burke.

"_Burke. Demming, is that you_?"

"Hey, Peter. You heard about the museum robbery?"

"_Who hasn't? You got the case?_"

"Yeah. I was hoping to pick your brain. And the brain of your special assistant." He leaned back, put his feet on his desk, and looked at the computer screen. "Because this is a fucked up case that makes no sense to me."

"_You should come for dinner and pick our brains there. Elizabeth was asking about you yesterday. I'm pretty sure she has another friend to set you up with."_

Tom laughed. "You can tell her I have my own date. But I don't want to impose..."

"_Your own date? Oh, that sounds promising. I can't remember the last time you found your own girlfriend. It must be serious_," he teased. "_And no, it's no imposition. We'll bring something in. So you bring your girlfriend and she and Elizabeth can talk_ \--"

"Actually she'll be talking with us, since she's on the case, too."

Peter hesitated for a minute and then put it together. "_Oh! In your new precinct? I know who it's gotta be. Nikki Heat. You are one smooth operator, Demming, bagging her_."

"Fuck off, Burke." And Peter had the nerve to laugh. Tom said, "Her name's Kate Beckett. I don't know if she'll be with me, but if she is, she will kick your ass if you call her that. I'll be there around eight, unless work gets in the way."

"_See you later_." They hung up, and Tom grabbed his info and went upstairs to see Beckett hard at work on the timeline board. Castle was already there, so Tom decided he'd ask her about dinner when they were alone.

Ryan and Esposito sat at the table with them, and Tom started.

"Our victim," Tom posted his photo on the board. "Cornell Fisher. I'm sure it'll come as a terrible shock to all of you to learn he had a record, including manslaughter and theft. Former gang member."

"And he was a security guard at a museum?" Ryan shook his head. "I know it's hard to get good help these days, but Jesus."

"Inside man," Castle said, and Tom nodded.

"Yeah. Someone had to kill the video cameras and the alarm."

"CSU electronics techs are in there right now. Hopefully they can find something," Beckett made a note on her pad. "So he could be in their ring already. Or the thieves hire him --"

"Or blackmail," Castle interjected.

"Or blackmail him to help," she added in smoothly, "He gets them in, they shoot him--"

"And they earn themselves automatic life sentences." Tom returned to his chair next to Kate. "Most pros avoid a homicide. These people are either that confident they won't get caught or they don't care. I'm thinking they might be out of the country already."

"Contact Interpol?" Esposito asked.

Tom shrugged. "I sent an alert for the paintings already, but until we work some suspects, we've got nothing to tell."

"So we start with Fisher," Kate said. "The three of us will hit his apartment; you two," she addressed Ryan and Esposito, "get on family and friends, especially gang contacts. If he was the inside man, there's a connection there, someplace."

They disbanded and when Kate started for the door behind Castle, Tom called her back, "Kate, hang on a sec."

Castle lingered in the doorway, perhaps intending to wait for her or listen if it was something to do with the case. But when Tom gave him a look, he held up both hands and backed off. "None of my business, I get it," he muttered and made himself scarce.

Kate turned and folded her arms, giving Tom a reproving look. "I thought we weren't flaunting it."

"What? How is wanting to ask you a question without him listening, 'flaunting' it?" he asked, both honestly confused and a bit irritated by the implication that they were supposed to pretend nothing was happening, to spare Castle's feelings. He'd had his chance and he'd blown it; Tom refused to feel guilty or step aside because Castle suddenly regretted leaving the field. "He already knows."

Her gaze flickered away with something, but she nodded. He continued, in an effort to change the subject, "Anyway, I'm having dinner with an FBI friend of mine to talk about the case. You're also invited, if you want to go. Burke will know more about the international angle than I do."

"All right," she agreed. "That sounds good, if we're not stuck here at work."

"He'll understand if we have to cancel." Then he smiled at her. "Let's go collect Castle and go over to Fisher's place."

She smiled back, their moment's difficulty melting away under the brightness of her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter opened the door to let them in and shook Tom's hand. Elizabeth was there and Tom introduced everyone, "Special Agent Peter Burke, his wife Elizabeth... this is Detective Kate Beckett."

"Come in, Kate," Elizabeth invited, smiling, and shook hands with Kate warmly. "Please, make yourself at home." Then she hugged Tom. "And you. I'm glad to see you. It's been too long."

He kissed her cheek. "Thanks for putting up with a work conference."

"Don't be silly. Neal's this way." She took him by the arm and led him to the living room where Neal was waiting.

"Caffery!" Tom laid the human-inaudible command tone over his voice and had the pleasure of seeing Neal straighten in reflexive obedience. Then he grinned easily, coming across the room to clasp hands.

"Demming."

Tom shook his head in pretended rueful amazement. "How the hell did you convince them to let you out of prison again, Caffery? After all the trouble Peter and I went through to put you in the first time?"

"Following your lead," Neal retorted. "Enjoying the good things in life."

Tom laughed. "I never said anything about taking up a life of crime!" he objected. "Are you being good?"

He displayed his ankle monitor. "Peter's got a leash on me to make sure, but I don't like jail too much, it turns out.'

"Good," Tom said, "Keep it that way." He didn't hide the threat, and saw that Neal knew he meant it.

Neal tossed a little salute and then turned his not-inconsiderable charm on Kate. But she'd been dealing with Castle for long enough to let it flow around her like water, and Tom stepped back to watch in amusement.

Elizabeth handed him a beer, stood close, and murmured, "I'm glad for you, y'know. You two look good together."

He flicked a pleased smile at her and slung his free arm across her shoulders to hug her against him.

"You stealing my wife, Demming?" Peter joked, coming up to them.

"If I am, you've got no jurisdiction 'til we cross state lines, Agent Burke," he retorted and asked her, "You want to run away with me?"

She put a finger to her lips and pretended to think about it. "I already have a cop," she pointed out and took Peter's hand. "I should trade up, not sideways, don't you think?"

"Oh, burn." Peter clinked his bottle against Tom's with his free hand. "That's how we get put in our place, right?"

She kissed him. "I've got some work in the other room. Dinner should be here in half an hour."

The cops and one criminal formed a loose circle in the living room to talk about the case. He saw Neal try the guacamole, and then shake his head slightly to warn Tom. Sodium benzoate was used a lot in food, and it made everything taste like salty aluminum foil.

As lead on the case, Tom presented it to the others and they mulled it over.

"What I can't figure is why these two paintings?" Tom asked. "A Vermeer and Velasquez? And they left the Monet and a Cassatt hanging on the wall? Hell, they could've cleaned the place out, since they weren't in a rush. I don't get it."

"They targeted those two. If I wanted a few paintings by famous artists, and I was willing to pay, the MFA's a good target because it's got lousy security. So my first thought is there's a buyer." Neal tapped Tom's folder of information. "But there's something interesting about that Vermeer that makes me wonder. Check their provenance."

Tom frowned. These days a bad provenance was of particular concern to many major museums. "Were they looted?"

"I know the Vermeer is disputed for sure," Neal said. "They didn't tell you at the museum?"

Tom exchanged a glance with Kate. "No," she answered. "They didn't mention that." She shook her head and made a face. "Damn it, I hate it when they lie to me."

Tom found his gaze crossing with Neal's then, knowing they both felt the sting. Both of them were lying, every single day, to people they cared about, and no matter how necessary it might be, they both wished they didn't have to.

"The family paid to have it stolen back?" Peter suggested.

Kate shrugged, finishing off her beer. "I hope not, because now the family's an accessory to murder." With a sigh, she leaned into Tom's arm that was stretched out across the top of the couch behind her. "There's no part of this that isn't dirty, is there?"

"Or if you want to get extra dirty, the museum wanted the paintings off their books," Neal said. "They get the insurance money, they don't have to pay off the family or give the paintings back, and if they're clever, they get the proceeds from the black market sale, too."

Tom was always impressed. "That'd be quite a scam to pull. Sills didn't strike me as that smart, but maybe. But, any way we slice it, the only key we have is the security guard."

"And he doesn't fit into any locks yet," Kate added, grimacing in annoyance. "Hopefully we'll get his financials and phone records tomorrow."

The front door buzzed and Peter went to take care of dinner. Elizabeth emerged and went to the kitchen; Kate rose to follow with her empty beer bottle. "Where should I put this?"

"On the counter's fine for now. Want another? Or wine? I'm opening Tom's favorite."

The sound of his name caught Tom's attention, and he eavesdropped to hear what the women would say about him.

Kate said, "Oh? Really? He's got none in his place that I saw."

Elizabeth chuckled softly and pulled a bottle of white out of the refrigerator, starting to open it. "His place, hm? You are special."

Kate frowned a little. "What do you mean?"

The glasses clinked against the counter as Elizabeth took them from the cabinet. "I've known Tom for six years now. And I can tell you some woman must've broken his heart, because I've set him up I can't tell you how many times over the years, and he didn't get past the first date. I started to wonder if he was gay, so I asked him."

"You didn't!" Kate objected, laughing.

Across the coffee table, Neal smirked at him and blew him a kiss. Tom rolled his eyes.

"Of course I did. I wasn't going to keep setting him up with girls if that wasn't what he wanted," Elizabeth insisted. "But he said he wasn't ready. He'd hurt someone badly, he said. Which I doubt, because Tom is far too kind to do that, but I can tell something went wrong that he won't tell me about."

Neal muttered for Tom's ears only, "'Kind'? please. Defender of the queen... "

Tom flipped him off, making Neal laugh.

At that moment, Peter came back, bearing a cardboard box full of containers and paper bags and distracting Tom. "Dinner's here."

No one talked work during the meal, keeping the conversation about the play Neal had seen, Tom's volunteer coaching, and Elizabeth and Peter's anniversary trip. Peter eventually coaxed Kate into talking about Castle, and Tom took that as his cue to bring the dishes to the kitchen. Elizabeth tried to protest, but he grinned and kissed the top of her head, "Relax. I've got it."

Neal followed him into the kitchen bearing the rest of the plates and turned on the water. "You need to destroy that blouse of hers. It's burning my eyes."

Tom grimaced. "I know." One of the red silk panels in Kate's blouse didn't match the others. Worse, it was nothing she could see, since she didn't have the color acuity he did in reds. But it was irritating to look at, especially under fluorescent lights and their flicker.

Then Neal's blue eyes turned serious, and he said, "Mozzie has a package."

Surprised, Tom frowned at him. Mozzie was Neal's 'fixer' friend, and he was the one who had provided Tom with an envelope containing documents with a new name on them. "I have one."

"Just in case. I've spotted three agents in Peter's building so far. They're building up."

"Damn it." Tom liked to think anyone who was FBI had to have been on Earth long enough to be sympathetic to the cause, but it was also likely that they were placed there because they were very loyal in preparation for the Arrival. They were going to cross paths with Tom eventually, given the nature of the work and being friends with Peter. Tom nodded. "Thank you."

"You need to get out of here."

"Not until I have to."

He could see the intent to argue on Neal's face, but Neal gave in, realizing Tom had made up his mind. "I worry about you, John," he muttered.

Tom smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "Don't. Haven't the last ten years proven it's not about me? I'm the first, but it doesn't end with me. We have to stand firm for what we know is true."

The sound of Kate's footsteps made him drop his hand and Neal turned off the water.

She looked from one to the other, a small frown appearing as if she could sense the discussion still hanging in the air. Then she shook it off, handed the last dish to Neal, and appealed to Tom, joking, "Please, come save me. She only wants to hear about Nikki Heat and Castle...."

Smiling, Tom followed her out. For another few hours, he stayed, warm with companionship of friends until he couldn't ignore Kate's hand on his leg anymore. And it took them only a shared glance to decide it was time to go.

 

* * *

 

They left the Burkes' apartment building to walk to hers, which was closer. It wasn't that late yet, and the air was still warm and alive with the various smells of the city.

With the memory fresh in her mind of Elizabeth's affectionate farewell, chiding Tom for staying away too long, Kate said, "They seem like good friends of yours."

He knew what she was asking. "Elizabeth sort of ... adopted me as her brother, once she realized I had no family. She's a very giving person, and she's taught me so much. And Peter and I are a lot alike."

"And Neal?" she asked.

He smiled. "Yeah, Neal. He's a little too clever for his own good, and he enjoys making fools of the authorities. I had the case first, and then Peter and I formed a task-force since Neal was stealing securities as well. But I can't stay angry at him, no matter what he does."

"He's very ... likable," she agreed and shook her head, ruefully. "He reminded me of Castle, though at least he only imagines the crimes. I can't believe the FBI went for having a felon advisor."

"It take a thief to catch a thief. Or that's what Peter argued. It was an interesting discussion, I'm told," Tom said dryly.

"I bet." She chuckled, lacing her fingers with his. "I wanted to tell you, when I said that about not liking it when people lie to me? You reacted like I was pointing it at you, but I wasn't. I understand why you can't tell me."

"I wish I could," he murmured and his gaze slipped from hers, to stare off into the distance. "But it's not something you want to hear."

She felt a little chill slip down her spine, and she wondered what exactly Tom had done or been in his former life. Maybe her guess of assassin hadn't been that far off.

But it was over now, she reminded herself. Whatever he'd done, he wasn't that person anymore, and the affection his former step-son and his friends had for him told her more about him than any words.

"I liked seeing you with your friends. It was fun," she murmured. "But I'm tired of being with other cops and having to act professionally around you."

"Oh, thank goodness, it's not only me," he said, so heartfelt it made her laugh and tug on his hand.

"Come on."

In her apartment, she locked up behind them and turned. She barely had time to toss her keys on the table before his mouth was on hers, and she was shoving impatiently at his jacket to yank it down his shoulders.

They dropped bits of clothing all the way to her bedroom. He yanked at her blouse, popping off the buttons and tearing the fabric. "Sorry," he muttered into her neck, not sounding very sorry at all.

Laughing, she pulled it off and threw it to the floor. "So you like it a little rough, Tom?" she purred at him and spun away from his grip to go to her bedside table and fumble around in the drawer, very aware of his eyes on her in her underwear. She'd worn the black set, knowing they were likely going to end up in bed tonight.

She pulled her leather cuffs out and held them up. "Interested?"

Instead of looking intrigued or amused, he went still and his eyes cut reflexively to the door. "I... uh..." he said hesitantly. "I hate to be disappointing, but I don't think I can. They put me in manacles when I was captured. It wasn't much fun." He said the words with an attempt at dry humor, but there was remembered horror in his eyes as he looked away.

"Oh." That stopped her. What had they done to him before he'd escaped? She'd been assuming he'd escaped before they'd done anything, but plainly that wasn't true. No wonder he was anxious about these people finding him again.

But he was also breaking the mood, and she wanted him on her again. So she smiled. "I was thinking more for me. Would that be okay?"

Now he was intrigued. "For you? I... I've never done that. Are you sure?"

She padded closer to him and put her free hand on his chest. "I trust you," she murmured, and lazily let that hand wander down his smooth, taut skin to where the hair started below his navel and the waistband of his boxers. "And a little restraint helps me let go. I want to feel everything." Her fingers traced his shape beneath the thin cotton making his breath catch with surprise. "I want to feel you."

Then she tugged the shorts down his hips, hands sliding down his thighs, until he stood naked before her. Hands stroking back up his body, she went up on her toes to touch her breasts to him and whisper, "I want you to touch me. And make love to me, so hard I can't stand it."

His hands splayed on her hips and waist, holding her close, as his mouth found hers again.

"Anything you want," he murmured. One hand went up her spine and opened her bra, then he pulled back to push the straps down and free her breasts from the cups.

The black bikini panties were the only thing left between them, and his eyes made heated trails across her body, followed by his hands on her ribs and caressing upward to weigh her breasts in each palm. She pressed into the touch, shaking back her hair.

Then, his eyes holding hers as if to be sure she was all right with this, he took the cuffs from her and held them so she could slip her hands inside. Then, one by one, he buckled them, and she shuddered as soon as he fastened the last one, feeling the heat flare deep inside. Oh God, yes, this was going to be perfect.

"Good?" he asked, with enough of a smile he had to know she was better than good.

She seized his wrists and pulled him back toward her bed. "This way."

But on the mattress, he had somehow snatched the linking chain and hooked it to the crossbar of the headboard. And that quickly, she'd lost control when he snapped the clasp and chain together, binding her wrists to the headboard.

She pulled on it, and while there was a little play, she was restrained. Something deep inside lurched and turned over -- it wasn't quite fear, not quite arousal, but looking up at Tom's face, as he watched her in concern, the feeling clarified. She was safe, and it was safe to let go.

She smiled, pulling her toes up the outside of his leg, and licked her lips. "So what're you gonna do with your prisoner, Demming?" she demanded in a low, teasing voice. "Gonna ravish her?"

"Thoroughly," he promised. He stayed still for a moment, raking his eyes down her body and making her want to squirm. So she looked back at him boldly, admiring the play of muscles and skin, especially as he bent forward to capture her lips with his.

His mouth skimmed down her neck to her breasts. She arched her back, letting out little moans at the touch of his hands and lips and tugging to free her hands. Opening her legs to clasp him around the hips, she held him tightly to her, enticed by evidence of his own arousal and trying to get him to rub where the warmth was starting to tingle between her legs.

He kissed down her stomach, squirming lower, and he tugged the wisp of her panties down her legs and off, before sliding his hands back up her calves and knees to coax her legs open for him again. Then, when she could feel his breath and he paused as if to inhale her smell, she shivered in expectation. "Oh, I think I'll have to keep you." She shuddered when his tongue swept delicately across her vulva. She twisted, but her hands were held tight and it made her shudder again.

He was enthusiastic, sucking and tonguing her clit until she could hardly stand it. Without the cuffs or his surprisingly strong grip on her legs, she would've thrashed around, but she couldn't move. She could only endure as he pushed her into higher arousal, letting her plateau and then rise again.

"Oh God, Tom, oh please---" her head jerked against the pillow, control utterly gone into the heat and pressure spinning through her.

And then his tongue pushed inside, sliding impossibly far and she could feel every inch of it, going deeper, touching her with precise pressure and licking. The rest of him, his lips and his face, were pushing against her as well. She convulsed, crying out, as it finally grew too much.

He coaxed her down easy, with gentle touches of his lips until she felt fragile and yet fulfilled. Her pulse was still rapid and she was breathing hard to catch her breath, but it was a beautiful loose feeling.

She wasn't sure she could bear more after that, as aftershocks slipped through her, but she licked her lips and managed to smile at him. "Inside, Tom, I want all of you."

He needed no more invitation, to lift her hips and she wrapped her feet around him. She watched him, as he thrust into her, and when he slammed another brief orgasm out of her, she kept her eyes open to see how the desire engulfed him too, until he was lost in the need for completion.

Then with a groan torn from his lungs, he jerked into her, helpless as his own orgasm swept him. He shut his eyes tightly and hissed something through his teeth.

He lowered himself on top of her, a heavy warmth, and kissed the middle of her chest and one breast softly before resting his head there. She still had her legs wrapped around him loosely, too boneless to move them, as he stirred again to reach up and open the clasps.

She brought her hands down to his shoulders to caress his skin with her fingers, skimming over the muscles and down his arms and then to his back.

Combing her fingers through his hair, she closed her eyes to embrace the stillness and the lassitude through her entire body. "Where did you learn to do that thing with your tongue?" she asked in a murmur. "Because that was amazing."

"I have many talents," he answered and she could feel him smiling against her skin.

She thought of his mysterious past and chuckled. At least doing wicked things with his tongue was something he could carry with him to a new life. "I bet, Demming."

 

* * *

As soon as he thought he could stand up without embarrassing himself, Tom stirred. "I'm going to get a drink, you want anything?" he asked. She didn't answer at first, so he sat up and started for the bathroom.

Her request followed him in the near dark. "Water, and a washcloth?"

"Sure." He went into the bathroom, filled a cup, and saw there were two washcloths on the rack. "Green one okay?" He dangled it from his hand to show her, unsure if the different colors meant she used them for different purposes.

She frowned in his direction. "That's the green one? I can barely see you. And I sure as hell can't tell which color it is."

He froze, realizing his mistake too late, then had to recover. "I saw it before," he explained with a shrug, but inwardly cursed. He was getting careless. He felt too comfortable around her and forgot to do basic things like turn on a light first.

"Here." He handed her the cloth and then the water cup. He couldn't tell her that he could see her nearly as plain as day with the city lights peeking around the curtains, but he could watch her in quiet admiration. His gaze caught sight of her red silk blouse on the floor, and he smiled a little. She'd never know why he'd torn it, because she couldn't see any difference.

_Couldn't see any difference_...

He stiffened, realization hitting him like a shock. "That's what it was."

"What? What are you talking about?" she asked in confusion, pitching the washcloth in the general direction of the laundry basket in the corner.

"The case. In the gallery. I think I know what was wrong." He stood up and started gathering his clothes. "I need to go to the museum and check it out."

She laughed softly. "Tom, it's almost midnight. It can wait."

"Oh. Right." He sat back on the bed heavily, disappointed.

Sitting up next to him, she leaned closer so her body heat radiated against his skin, though she only touched his leg. "What's your idea?" she prompted.

"That Monet painting was different."

"Different how?"

"I'm not sure, without looking at it again. But it didn't quite look... right," he answered. That was a lie-- he knew damn well it was different. "I think the thieves swapped it and the one on the wall is a fake."

"Hm, that's a good theory. But wouldn't Sills have noticed?" she asked. "Or someone else in the museum?"

That was the tricky part, because he assumed the colors looked right to humans. It wouldn't be a very good fake if at least the colors and brush-strokes didn't look nearly perfect. "Would he? Even if he wasn't part of it -- which we don't know -- why would he look? The other paintings were taken."

She made a thoughtful noise and rested against him. "So the others were a decoy?" she realized. "The real target was the Monet?"

The heat of her skin against his back suddenly made this case seem unimportant, and his fingers itched to touch her again. He pushed aside his rising desire to focus on the case. "It would be pretty easy to alter a haystack painting to look like a newly discovered one. And sell it for a whole lot of money."

She nodded, her hair brushing his shoulder. "It'd have to be a especially good fake, right?" she asked and he agreed. "So there can only be so many people who can do that work, I'd assume?"

He saw where she was going with that and flashed a smile. "I'll ask Peter and Neal tomorrow. And maybe dig around in my contacts. But first, I should make sure at the museum."

"First thing in the morning," she promised. Then her fingers gripped his shoulders and she pulled him onto his back on top of her. He turned over, pushing up to find her lips with his, indulging in the new heat she'd raised in him.

Her hands curled around his waist as she hummed her pleasure into his mouth. Then when he'd shifted to kiss her neck, she was caught by a yawn. "Sorry. I think we should sleep. You're staying, right?"

"I'm staying," he agreed, though he was starting to realize it was a bad idea. Kate already knew more about his real life than any human ever had. If she found out more, he was going to have to leave.

He pulled the sheet and blanket up over them, and when she turned onto her side, she pulled his arm over her waist, so he could spoon up behind her.

She let out a soft, sleepy sigh and, instead of speaking, tightened her grip on his hand.

The heat of her body so close to his made him drowsy, but also made him want to remember all of it, so he'd have another memory to take out and feel again whenever he needed it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar with V and White Collar, but may know the actors through other work, Doctor Pearlman is played by Lexa Doig and Mozzie by Willie Garson, if it helps you visualize. :)
> 
> And there's another bonus crossover in this part, just for fun!

Tom didn't have to get close to the Monet to see he was right. The reds in the sunset and black of the shadows in the painting had been altered from the painting he'd seen before.

"So?" Kate prompted.

"It's different," he answered.

"Detectives?" Sills hurried up to them. "Have you found the missing paintings?"

Tom turned to him. "Actually, Mister Sills, I think there's at least one more painting missing. This one was replaced by a forgery."

Sills was startled. "What? No, that can't be." He peered at the Monet. "It looks ... correct. The brush-strokes... the signature... It's in the right frame. I'm not a Monet expert, but it seems right. Are you sure?"

"Let's take a closer look, shall we?" Tom put his hands on the frame and carefully lifted it from its pegs. Then he turned it over to see the back.

He didn't have to look at it himself, he only had to watch Sills' face drop. "That... That's not right. There should be a lot number from when it was auctioned in 1912." He looked up at Tom. "How did you know?"

Tom shrugged. "Just a guess. Interesting they didn't try to fake the back, though. You need to check the authenticity of the rest of the works."

"And get us the information on their provenance as well," Kate suggested coolly. "Let's go discuss how the museum acquired that Vermeer, while you get me all the documents regarding that dispute." She led Sills away.

Tom set the painting on the floor, still treating it carefully although it was a fake.

"How did you know?" Castle asked, joining Tom in looking down at it. "Sills couldn't tell. But you knew from looking at it?"

Tom shrugged. "Something seemed off. It might take an expert to tell us what, but it felt wrong to me. I've visited this gallery on my own many times, and I have a good eye for details like that."

Castle wasn't put off by the casual answer and frowned. "Or did someone tip you off?"

"If I'd had a tip, I'd have said so." That was actually his preferred method of handling facts he shouldn't have, but Kate had already known it was something he'd seen himself. "I need to look at surveillance video. Whoever painted this must have looked at it very carefully to make it match so well. I bet he's been in this room a lot."

Castle was still on the hunt for something else. "Esposito says you're famous at your old precinct for breaking a case on some suspect's **smell**."

Tom stayed calm, and managed a short laugh. "Yeah, I remember that. Everyone looked at me as if I'd gone crazy. But I was right."

Castle looked at him - not with the previous sense of challenge he'd had, but more as if Tom was a puzzle he wanted to solve. "Something about you seems 'off' to me, Demming."

Self-protective instinct roiled in his stomach: the urge to run away from being found out warring with his instinct to strike out and end the threat. In the end he forced a little smile. "Don't cast me as the villain, Castle, because you regret telling me the field was clear. Grasp at straws all you want, there's nothing there."

Tom started walking away toward the security office, and Castle called after him, "See? And now I know there is something."

Tom grimaced. That had been unwise throwing the challenge down in front of Castle like that. Castle was stubborn enough to go after it and clever enough to find the holes in Tom Demming's identity if he looked closely.

But it was some consolation that even if he figured out 'Demming' was a false identity, he'd never figure out the truth.

* * *

 

"Mozzie," Tom said, standing right behind him at the news-stand.

Mozzie whipped around, nearly dropping the chocolate bar in his hand. "Demming!"

Tom smirked a little. Mozzie's air of omniscience was annoying, so it was fun to fuck with him once in a while. Tom knew Neal had never told Mozzie the truth, but the rat was very smart and he had to know there was a very large secret hanging in the background. But he helped anyway.

"Walk with me." They ambled along the street and paused in front of shiny boutique window so they both could see behind them. "Neal says you made me a second package."

Mozzie was smooth and calm again, as if he'd expected to see Tom all along. "I did," he nodded, glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Neal said your other exit might be compromised."

"It's not, to my knowledge. But I don't mind options. Thank you. I have a question about my case. The Monet in the AFMA was replaced by a forgery." Mozzie didn't look surprised, but then, he rarely did. "Who'd have the skill?"

"I do," Mozzie told him, challenging. "Isn't that what you're asking?"

Tom smiled. "You, my friend, are many things but you're no master painter. And if it had been you, you're smart enough to have already told me. But this copy is very, very good, at least to the eye. Good enough to fool the curators on the wall."

Mozzie frowned at him. "But not you? You're no art expert."

"I could hardly spend all this time around you and Neal and not learn something, right?" Tom returned.

Mozzie's glance suggested he didn't miss Tom's deflection, but he didn't press. "I can think of a name. I'm not saying he did it, because I don't know, but if it's not him, he knows who did. Wallace Berger."

Tom knew the name vaguely. "You have an address?"

"No. But I heard he's in town. So's Sophie Devereaux."

Tom's reaction was all that Mozzie could've wanted with that bombshell. He regarded Mozzie in stunned surprise. "What? Sophie's here?"

"I saw her, a week ago." There was a smug curve to Mozzie's lips, avenging himself on how Tom had startled him earlier. "Do you need me to find her?"

"No. If she's around, I know where she'll be." Tom wanted to insist that Sophie couldn't be involved. But she was like Neal -- she enjoyed the freedom of doing whatever she wanted on Earth far too much. And this did sound like a scam she might be part of. Not to mention she hadn't told him she was around, which was in itself suspicious. "I hope she's not involved in this, but if she is, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"And then work hard to keep her out of jail, too?" Mozzie asked, slyly. "For a cop, you have interesting priorities, Demming."

Tom was not bothered by the back-handed threat, and smiled at him a little. "I do. And I'm prepared to overlook some things because I know the big picture. But paintings and money are not worth human lives. That's where I draw the line, and if she's forgotten that, then... I'll have to remind her."

Mozzie's gaze met his and he nodded slowly. "You're one of the most dangerous men I know, badge or no badge."

Tom didn't like to think of himself that way, since he hadn't done anything more dangerous than any other police detective in many years, but that didn't make it less true. "And you're one of the smartest." He nodded his head to Mozzie in goodbye and headed back to work.

* * *

 

Back at the station, while he looked up Wallace Berger in the system, he put the phone to his ear and called the Omni Hotel's head of security. After the usual bullshit to reconnect with Mathers, who was still nicely grateful for Tom putting away two clerks who'd been embezzling from the hotel, Tom got to the point, "I've had a tip that a person of interest might be staying there. She might be there under the name Sophie Devereaux. Or be in room 617 under a different name."

Mathers hesitated for a second and then remembered how grateful he was, said, "Hold on a sec, let me access registration."

"There's no Devereaux," he reported after a moment. "There's a woman in 617. Under the name Genevieve May."

Tom's pen snapped as his hand tightened to a fist. Why not put up a sign that she was part of the Fifth Column? "That's her. Ring her room, I need to leave a message."

It rang through and switched to voice mail. He left the message, keeping to both cover identities, though he wanted to yell at her for using that name. His anger made his tone very formal. "This is Detective Tom Demming, NYPD, calling for Genevieve May." His voice got a little caught in his throat at the name. It had been a long time since he'd spoken 'May' aloud. "I believe you may have information related to a current case I'm working. It's important that you call me back." He left his cell number and hung up, blowing out a breath. Hopefully she would call back, so he didn't have to go looking.

But then "Wallace Berger" spat out some addresses and after some cross-referencing, he thought he had the one. He went upstairs to find Kate and Castle in the case room.

"Hey, where've you been?" Castle asked.

"Meeting one of my CIs," he answered. "A fruitful meeting it turns out. Meet Wallace Berger," he handed the file to Kate, "whose legitimate business is painting portraits, and whose side business is making copies of famous paintings. I have an address, if you're interested?" he waved the paper at Kate who snatched it away.

"Give me that, Demming. Let's go."

"Is this a date, or can I join in the fun?" Castle asked.

Kate frowned at Castle. "This is not a date. And of course, you can join us, if you want."

"I've never seen a forger's place. Should be very interesting." Castle moved to the door with typical eagerness.

Shaking her head, Kate followed.

They took a car to Berger's place. The area was in mid-improvement -- run down warehouses and industrial spaces had turned into clubs and lofts. In the cluster of buildings at the end of the short, dead-end street, Tom looked around, wondering which building it was since none of them seemed to have numbers.

The three of them split up to look, and Castle was the one to find it: a three story building with tall windows on the top floor. The main door was open and led only to a staircase.

Everything was quiet, as if no one was around this time a day.

As he climbed up to the third floor, he caught the acrid whiff of toluene lingering in the stairwell. They were definitely in the right building.

His heart was beating a little more quickly at the promise of the confrontation to come. Was it possible to get addicted to the danger? He wondered about that sometimes, when there were guns drawn and there was a possibility he could get shot. Every day chanced exposure. Luckily they weren't looking for him actively anymore, but he hadn't changed his face. He lived in a big city and met lots of people. Any one of them... suspect, witness, attorney, juror, stranger on the subway... could be an agent who could recognize him and this life would either end in another flight or a hail of bullets.

But that little thrill was a genuine feeling, and it reminded him he was alive. He couldn't give it up. If it ended today, it would be worth it to have been free these past ten years.

He and Kate reached the top floor and the single, wide door, with Castle tagging along behind. He knocked loudly. "NYPD, Mister Berger. We need to ask you some questions."

He knocked again, louder, and the door clicked and opened slightly. He and Kate shared a glance, and she put a hand on her weapon. "Mister Berger, NYPD. Is everything okay?"

When she got no answer, they both drew and stood to either side of the opening. With his free hand, he pushed the door open. The small entry was empty, but he could see feet on the floor, sticking out from a doorway to a connecting room. The walls were regular height, ending halfway to the unfinished ceiling twenty feet above that stretched the entire length of the building.

"Stay here," Kate whispered to Castle. "NYPD, nobody move!" she called and started inside.

Tom followed, senses alert. His nostrils twitched: he smelled paint and various benzenes. But even those strong chemical scents couldn't mask the smell of blood. Lots of blood, but no decay, meant the death was very recent. He cleared the kitchen area to the left as Kate knelt at the body to check his pulse. She murmured, "Berger. He's dead. Still warm."

"There goes our lead," he said, keeping his attention on where the entryway opened out into the loft. "Let's check it." The room where Berger died was a small sleeping area with another wall and door, presumably for a bathroom. She nodded and rose to check the connecting room.

There was something else not quite right but he couldn't place it so close to the body. He moved forward to where the room opened out into the loft. Besides a few scruffy pieces of furniture and some metal shelves, there were canvases on frames and boards everywhere - some in progress on easels, some empty, stacked in piles on tables -- and other tables filled with painting supplies. The tall windows let in the light and four were opened to let in the breeze.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned to see Kate, coming out of the connecting door.

But her eyes were on something else and she raised her gun. "Stop!" she shouted.

Tom turned the other way to see a man emerge from behind one of the large canvasses. He had a gun, too, pointing right at Tom, and he fired.

The shot slammed into him and Tom jerked backward into the painting on the easel behind him. When he tried to use it to catch his balance, he knocked it over and tripped on the legs, stumbling before he found the back wall to steady himself.

Kate fired back, taking the shooter down. He fell with a very satisfying thump to the floor. "Tom?" she asked, not taking her eyes from the perp. She cautiously hurried forward to kick the gun away.

He couldn't answer right away. The bullet had hit him on the right side of his abdomen, and with his free hand he found he was bleeding. It had punched mostly through his human flesh, and both wounds burned like fire.

But he couldn't afford to have paramedics or doctors involved. Which meant he had to recover. He wiped his hand on his shirt, made sure his jacket was over the wounds, and was straightening by the time Kate turned around.

"Tom! Damn it. I'll call the paramedics--"

"I'm fine, Kate. Fine," he insisted, his voice a little too breathless. He cleared his throat and forced himself upright, away from the wall. It ached, but he'd felt worse. He was going to need to get something to stop the bleeding though. "I was surprised. It missed." He pulled his hand away and held it up to show his clean fingers.

She frowned in concern. "He had a clean line from eight feet away, and he missed?"

"Don't sound so disappointed," he chided, joking, and reholstered his gun, glad the holster was on the other side from the wound. He forced himself not to wince at the movement. "Shooter still alive?"

She glanced down. "Nope. Damn it."

"Well, thanks for taking him. He might have been a better shot." He tried to breathe normally, ignoring the burning in his middle. "I'll call CSU and some uniforms." He headed back to the hall, phone to his ear and nodded to Castle that he could go in.

He could hear the two of them talking, and while they were occupied, he grabbed a wad of tissues from the box in the hall and shoved them under his shirt and waistband of his pants. He tightened his jaw, hissing once at the pressure on his burned and torn flesh, then tucked his shirt back in tightly to try to hold them in place until he could tend to it.

Phone call done, he returned to the living area. Kate was kneeling by the guy she'd shot, searching his pockets, and Castle was hovering nearby, watching. He noticed Tom's return and greeted him with, "You've got quite the Joseph look there, by the way."

Tom frowned at him, missing the reference. He'd been on the planet long enough and read enough books that he caught most things, but Castle was being obtuse. "Joseph?"

"The coat of many colors," Kate explained. "The back of your jacket's covered."

Castle shook his head, grimacing in pity. "And it's oil paint, too, on grey wool. It's ruined."

Tom didn't bother to look, only made a face. "Damn it. I liked this one."

Castle wandered back to the painting now mostly on the back of Tom's jacket and the easel, then turned back to frown in Beckett's direction. "Missed you completely, huh?" Castle asked Tom.

"Passed so close I felt the heat of it."

"That's too close."

Not certain if Castle was being sarcastic, Tom returned, "You going to put that in a book?"

"Actually, I already did," he answered. "So you were here," he moved to stand where Tom had been, "and the guy was over there? And he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn? No offense," he added in a quick smirking aside to Tom. "That's amateur, isn't it? And yet, he came to clean up Berger's loose end."

Beckett stood up and shook her head. "Well, I can't say I'm all that sorry he's dead, when he was trying to kill Tom, but I am sorry we won't be getting him to talk. He's got no i.d. on him. We'll have to hope his prints are in the system and track him that way."

Uniforms arrived and when Beckett went to meet them, Tom saw Castle squatting over the fallen easel. "What are you doing?" he asked, but he knew. Castle was looking for the bullet.

"See, in my book it was an assassination attempt, and they figured out which window the shooter was from the trajectory of where the bullet landed," Castle explained. "Ah, there it is." He was careful not to touch it, pointing at the splintered hole, and then pulled his finger back to trace how the easel had fallen to get an idea of the trajectory.

Castle frowned from Tom, the shooter's body, and the wall and back to Tom again. "You sure you weren't hit?"

"I kinda think I would've noticed," Tom said dryly. "I'm fine."

Which wasn't true, but he had to stay there and endure anyway, as Ryan and Esposito arrived to help with the scene, the crime scene team, and then IA to question everyone about the shooting. As time passed, he was feeling rather miserable, and it was getting harder to pretend his middle didn't hurt like hell. Finally they were released to go back to the precinct and he seized his chance, "Hey, Beckett, I've got a basketball practice. Think you can take it from here for now?"

She smiled at him. "No problem. I'll see you later tonight?"

At which point he realized he'd screwed himself. Because of course she was going to notice if he was hurt when his shirt was off. But he wanted to see her anyway, so he smiled back. "Sure."

Instead of going to practice though, he went home. In the bathroom, he used the mirror to look. It was still bleeding slowly and burned, which meant there was probably a bullet fragment in there. So he took a pair of tweezers, and poked inside. Though he could feel something hard in there, he couldn't get it out. "Damn it." The kitchen sink was stained with red blood and pale green abdominal fluid, and the wound was making him nauseous, which was not a pleasant new sensation at all.

He needed help, which was another risk. He hadn't dared to reveal himself to more than a few of his own kind, and he couldn't let the humans know what he was.

Abruptly he felt very alone.

He pulled the vodka out of the wet bar and drank half the bottle, wishing it worked nearly as well for him as it did for humans. Then he called Neal.

"_Hello_...."

"Tom Demming, Neal. This is personal."

Neal paused and then said enthusiastically, "_Shari! Thanks for calling me back_."

Tom caught on right away. "You're at Peter's place?"

"_Oh yes. I'm very busy, but never too busy to talk to you_," he purred, murmured something Tom couldn't catch, and shortly said in a very different low voice, "_What's the matter_?"

"I got shot."

"_Shit. How bad_?"

"Not too bad. But I need help."

"_No, I can't get away. Go to Pearlman_."

Tom flipped through his memory, coming up with the name. He didn't know her, which was a problem. "You sure she's one of us?"

"_Never met her, but she's a good candidate. Ryan knows her. If she's wavering, a little of you will convince her_."

A candidate recommended by the person who'd captured John May in the first place was not ideal, though Neal believed Ryan was committed now. Tom hadn't dared to test that loyalty in person yet. A loyalty experiment with a stranger when he was bleeding all over the place was probably not wise either.

But he couldn't be terrified of everyone and never take a risk either. Not when his middle hurt like he'd swallowed a hot coal.

"I hope so." Then he added irritably, since he had Neal on the line and he could indulge in his old authority, "And for fuck's sake, Neal, you know if you blow it with Peter and get sent back to jail, agents will have you taken from prison and killed for being so reckless. I can't get involved again."

"_I know. I won't_," Neal said, sounding more subdued.

"Good. And thank you."

He hung up, then, leaving his badge and any other connection to Tom Demming on his kitchen counter, he put on his leather jacket and went out to find someone who he hoped was a Fifth Column doctor.

* * *

Tom pushed the buzzer of the townhouse and the female voice answered, "Hello?"

Leaning against the wall, he said, "Doctor Pearlman? I'm sorry to bother you, but I need your help. I'm from very far away and I don't know where else to go."

She hesitated very briefly and then answered, "Of course. Be right there."

It took a moment when he heard footsteps behind the door and then it unlocked and opened. He held himself tense as the door opened. He didn't know her; but that didn't mean she couldn't identify him, though he hadn't been on the radar in years. But he also knew she had been assigned to examine human procreation, including human delivery. His hope was that exposure to newborns and human grief and joy had helped her become friendly to his cause.

But luckily it didn't seem to matter, as her dark eyes looked up at him without recognition.

"'Very far away'?" she repeated dryly, lifting her eyebrows and looking amused. "Come in."

As soon as the door shut behind him, she asked, "What do you need?"

"I was shot. I think there's still a fragment in there, and I can't stitch up my back myself."

She wasn't surprised to hear that he was walking around after being shot. "Oh, that is a problem. My office is right here and I'll take a look."

Her office turned out to be what was probably the dining room in the old days and when the lights came on, he saw a bulletin board covered with photos of babies. The photos were a good indication that he was right.

She saw his attention and attempted to cover. "My patients send them to me," she explained brusquely. "Take off your jacket and shirt and let me see."

He stripped off his shirt with a wince and stretched out on the exam table.

She gathered her supplies and washed her hands in a sink in the corner. When she turned back, she paused. "You're large for a worker," she murmured in surprise. Her eyes flickered with thought. "But you can't be a soldier, or you wouldn't be in pain at all. Which means..."

He could practically see the progression in her mind: he had to be a defender, there were only a few of them, and there was only one likely to be on the surface getting shot at.

Then her gaze fastened to his face, eyes widening. "Is it true?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"

He answered, holding her eyes, "I hope I haven't made a mistake."

"No, you haven't." She shook her head and came up to the side of the exam table.

He was still wary and tensed to strike, knowing he'd have to kill her if she attacked him.

"You doubt me? All right." She said in bold declaration, "I am Leah Pearlman, Fifth Column member, and I am helping John May." They both knew that those words signed her own death warrant, no matter how loyal or useful she had been before that. Then she smiled and her small hand touched his arm lightly. "Relax. Let me do my job."

"All right." He lay there and let her dig the metal out. It felt better immediately when she dropped it in the little tray, and after she stitched and bandaged it, he felt almost back to normal.

She smoothed the bandage one last time. "There. All done."

He sat up. "Thank you."

She eyed him with some disapproval. "You need to keep safer," she chided. "Getting shot at by humans is careless."

He shrugged. "I've been 'dead' for ten years. The movement continued without me."

"And if your corpse gets autopsied by humans?" she challenged. "You know what Anna will do to this planet."

She had a point. As he reached for his shirt, he realized that this was proof Anna was wrong to try to keep them rigidly adhering to the old ways. As late as the voyage here, he would've killed a worker for reprimanding him, if she had dared to try. But now they had become more equal, and he had to accept Leah was right.

Leah added, glancing at the photos on the wall. "I do my job, because we need it, and I know that. But ... when I see the babies and the parents' joy, I know it's wrong. They don't deserve our cruelty and lies. And when the humans find out, they're going to hate us. If we had come openly, maybe they would've helped us willingly. But now it can only end in death, and that hurts to think about," she murmured.

The guilt stabbed him, and he shut his eyes briefly. If only he could go back and do it all over again, with what he understood now... But it was madness to think those thoughts. Infiltration still had to be better than open conquest. "We need to make sure that doesn't happen."

She turned to face him, nodding. "I read the blog, John. I think more of us read it than you know." She advised, "Take your phosphorus supplements to promote healing. Eat something fresh -- alive if you can, though I know that's not always practical here."

He grinned and shrugged into his jacket. "I like human food, but that's one human morality I can't follow. Not when there are mice around." She snickered. He went on, more seriously, "Have you heard anything about when the Arrival is due?"

She shook her head. "Not specifically. Within the year, I'd guess, though."

"That soon? Are the experiments going so well then?"

"Better than expected. We've had one IVF hybrid take, and a few others miscarry. The compatibility is all we thought it would be."

He blew out a breath. "I know that's good news for us collectively, but damn it, I thought I had more time. I need you to keep my presence secret. I went through a lot of effort to make sure Anna believes I'm dead, and I need to keep it that way as long as possible."

"I understand. But I'm glad it's not true. If you need my help again, I'm here."

He thanked her and left, consumed with thoughts that the Arrival was coming. He'd known it would be "soon" but suddenly "soon" had become "now", and it wasn't going to be too long until Tom Demming was going to have to die to bring John May back to life.

* * *

 

Before leaving for the day to meet Tom, Kate looked at her computer and then, eaten up by curiosity, entered a phrase into the internet search box that she remembered from peeking at his writing. It came up immediately with the username _johnmaylives_ at blogger.

She opened the link. The blog was barebones, white on black text, and the same entry he'd written was on top. She scrolled around, frowning curiously. The blog was called John May Lives, and the entries were all similar in topic -- about daily life, but always with an emphasis on the value of life and open to feeling emotions, exactly what Tom had talked about. Oddly, all the entries purported to have been sent to the poster by anonymous letter or e-mail.

Which, given she'd seen him drafting the latest entry and he'd confessed to having a new identity, made her suspect Tom was this "John May" himself, hiding behind a screen of a fictional second party. But why the hell would he risk cracking that identity and risk his life to write a blog about... philosophy? It made no sense.

There were few comments and never replies from the author.

But one comment made her feel cold and she stared at it for a long time: "_John May is dead. All of you traitors will soon join him. You will be cleansed when the day of Arrival comes._"

The response was anonymous: JOHN MAY LIVES

She frowned. This wasn't some mob family thing, as Tom had implied. "cleansed"? "arrival"? That sounded religious. Maybe he had escaped from a cult?

Curious, she ran "John May" in the database. She clicked through the entries for that name, and the one that drew her name was the suicide from ten years ago, upstate. A wife named Lily and a step-son clinched it.

The case had been closed as a suicide -- there had been a note, evidence of odd behavior, and a car driven into the ocean. The body had never been recovered, though.

Because that body was now Detective Tom Demming.

But further inquiry came up dry: "John May" had no connections she could find to any criminal record, investigations, or religious wackos. It was all very clean. And yet Tom had been concerned that the kid might get killed, if word got out that John May's suicide had been fake.

Was it too clean? Was he a spy? A terrorist planted here under deep cover? A former terrorist who'd tried to give it up, given that comment about cleansing? A cult member who'd escaped?

Was there another identity behind "John May"?

"Who are you?" she whispered, and stared at the ten-year-old driver's license photo of a man who looked exactly like Tom Demming. "Why do people want you dead?"

* * *

When Kate buzzed to come up, he brushed his teeth again and drank some more beer in case dinner had left a smell, and was in time to open the door as she approached. "Come in." He saw her nose twitch, probably at the bleach he'd used in the bathroom to clean up the mess.

But then her eyes settled on him, and he was glad he'd changed to a t-shirt and shorts. He certainly wasn't above trying to distract her, not when she distracted him by being there.

"Did you have a good practice?" she asked, setting down her clutch and her holster on the table in the short hallway.

"I... uh, didn't go," he answered and moved into the kitchen to start unpacking the take-out containers with studied casualness.

"Why not?"

"Well..." Inhaling a deep breath, he pulled up his shirt to reveal the bandage wrapped around his middle, beneath the ribs, and smiled as sheepishly as he could. "Turned out it got me after all."

She took two steps toward him, alarmed.

"I thought it was the heat of the miss, but it's this ugly graze on my side. So, I got it taken care of by a doctor friend of mine."

"But you're okay?" she demanded.

"I feel like I got kicked by an elephant, but I'm okay," he reassured her. "But I'm not very hungry after the pills. I have salad and pasta from Jonnie's for you, if you--"

She put a hand on him, halting his words, and when he turned, she shook her head at him. "I knew he couldn't have totally missed you."

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her close. "You saved my life," he murmured, "He wouldn't have shot so badly a second time."

Careful of his bandaged area, she wrapped her hands around his neck to kiss him. "It was a lot of paperwork," she teased. "Gonna make it up to me?"

"Oh yeah." He captured her mouth with his, hands skimming her hips and then to her blouse to undo the top two buttons, this time careful not to tear at the fabric.

His lips found the swell of her breasts, while his hands skimmed her hips.

There came a knock on the door and he straightened, alarm flashing through his body. He pulled free of her hands and grabbed his gun from the table before going to the door. She reached for hers, as he flicked off the safety and bent to check the peephole.

He didn't need the distorted image -- the familiar scent wafting in from the corridor was enough. He unlocked the door and flung it open. "Sophie! What the hell are you doing here?"

Her clothes were more expensive than his cop's salary could manage, but she looked the same. She smiled and answered in her adopted accent, "You called me, remember?"

"I thought you would call me back, not visit," Tom said, trying to signal her that he had company.

She got it immediately, leaning to one side and spotting Kate behind him. "I'd have called first if I'd known you would have company," she retorted and stepped past to smile at Kate. "I'm Sophie."

He introduced, "Sophie, this is Kate Beckett. Kate, Sophie."

Sophie asked, "Detective Beckett, isn't it? I imagine you both must be working very hard on the case." Her gaze took in Tom's boxer shorts and bare feet, and Kate's open shirt. Kate blushed adorably. "I'm so happy you've stopped running away. Tom."

He wished she hadn't tacked on "Tom" as an afterthought, since Kate couldn't possibly miss that.

"I don't want to interrupt Tom actually practicing what he preaches," Sophie teased, "so I'll be brief. I had nothing to do with the robbery. Nor did anyone I know. A friend of mine, however, put together this. Hardison, you met him, remember?" she reminded him, and Tom nodded. Hardison was the young hacker who had made it possible to upload to his blog without giving away his location. He was glad Hardison was a friend of Sophie's, because he was going to be very useful when the Arrival came. She set down a thumb drive. "None of it is admissible, I'm afraid, but at least it points you at the right people."

Kate seized the drive eagerly. "I can't wait to look at it. Thank you."

"Oh, I'd do quite a lot more for Tom here, if I needed to," Sophie answered breezily.

"You've known him a long time?" Kate asked.

Sophie laughed. "Oh, yes. Since we were both much younger." Her eyes met his, and he knew she was remembering home, too. She had been at the queen's court, a worker with a talent for infiltrating enemy Nests, and had been the first to report intel that Anna was moving on them.

"You knew him before he came to the NYPD, then?"

Sophie's gaze snapped back to Kate, aware that Kate was fishing, and she didn't answer.

Tom cut in, annoyed, "Kate, please. I asked you to leave it alone."

And Sophie looked back at him in shock. "She knows?"

He made a rueful face. "I ran into James, and Kate was there. That required some explanation of the ... unpleasantness ten years ago. And the danger of digging into my old identity," he said, with a sour glance at Kate.

Sophie took a step toward Kate and addressed her directly, with that cool accent of hers underlying her calm words, "I realize it's your job to investigate mysteries. But your curiosity could kill him. Not to mention--"

"Sophie!" he cut her off before she could inadvertently spill something closer to the truth in her effort to make her point more dramatically. Or before she threatened Kate. "That's enough. Kate didn't mean any harm."

"Very well. I'll leave you to it then. Walk me to the door?" She curled a hand around his arm. "We should get a drink and catch up. And you know you're always welcome with us, if the water gets too hot," she invited. "Nobody will ask difficult questions."

His smile was fleeting. "I rather like my moral high ground, but thank you." He lowered his voice to a murmur only Sophie could hear. "I've spoken to more of us in the last two days than the last five years, and I ... I can't hide forever, can I?"

"No," she agreed in the same low tone, watching over his shoulder to make sure Kate didn't approach too closely. "We've kept the name alive, but that won't be enough when the Arrival comes. We need your authority to stand against Anna."

He nodded, thinking. She had a point-- it was only his rank as a defender that gave workers something to cling to, when their instincts and their Blisss addiction said the queen **must** be right, even when they knew she was wrong. "All right. Maybe it's time to start building something that'll be bigger than the five of us. An actual organization." She smiled, pleased and proud of his decision, as he finally did what she'd wanted all along. "So I need you to go back to Europe and start vetting contacts for a network. Carefully. In my name, but leave the double-bluff intact. I know that'll take you away from your friends --" he started with regret, but she put her fingers over his lips.

"Yes, they are my friends, and because they're my friends and I care about them, I follow you. So of course I'll do this. Besides, it'll give me a chance to think about... things."

"Oh?"

But she didn't answer the implicit question, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "John May lives. Take care that it remains true." She kissed his cheek then headed for the elevator. He watched her go, worried for the mission he'd sent her on and if it was wise to get more active.

He went back in and locked the door, thoughtful.

Kate asked, "Is she a thief? She denied responsibility for the painting."

"Thief. Con artist," he admitted with a smile. "Old friend. And a very useful informant for some of my bigger cases. Sophie's a lot of things."

"You shared some criminal past with her and Neal, didn't you? That's why you know them," Kate guessed.

"Not ... exactly." He wanted to tell her that they hadn't been criminals, but since that was his main excuse for not telling her at all, he held his tongue.

"And she knows your... " Kate started, but stopped herself. When she looked at him again, her expression was rueful. "And I should drop it, shouldn't I?"

"Please." He poured out a shot of vodka and gulped it down. He put both hands down to lean against the narrow wet bar, staring at his reflection in the glass of the picture. He wanted to be glad he was slowly putting a resistance together, but mostly he hated that he was watching his life as Tom Demming crumble day by day.

He started when her hand touched his shoulder. "Didn't anybody tell you not to drink and take pain pills, dummy?" She plucked the shot glass from his hand and pushed his shoulder lightly to turn him away her. "I'm sorry. I'm being pushy and curious, forgetting you got shot at today." Then she put both hands on his shoulders, kneading with her fingers into the muscle at the base of his neck. "So let me help. I have a better way to reduce stress than booze."

"You do? But what about dinner?"

Her voice was like molasses, as her hands made soft trails down his spine. "It'll keep."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appearing in this chapter is Agent Dale Maddox from V -- played by Alan Tudyk.

"You're working hard this morning," Castle greeted her, leaning up against her desk. "Something new on the case come in?"

She glanced up from her computer and smiled. "One of Tom's contacts came up with some information. We're going through it."

"Is there anyone in the city he doesn't know?" Castle grumbled.

Her smile widened and she teased, "Moving into your turf, Castle?"

He made a face and didn't answer, though the agreement wasn't hard to see. He came around to look at the screen, leaning over her shoulder. "That... looks like financial info?"

"A bank in Monaco. Source of the funds to pay the late Mister Berger for his forgery skills. He didn't have long to enjoy them. We have the account holder's name now, and Tom's running the inquiry to the feds." She shook her head, disappointed. "But there's a lot of information on here, that's going to take a whole lot of going over."

"Can I help?" he asked eagerly.

"Um," she thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "Sure. This drive is packed with files, and I haven't even had a chance to look at some of them and see what they are, and how they're relevant to the case. See what you think." She handed him the thumb drive, and he wandered away to borrow another computer.

After lunch, she was working her way through a group of photos taken from one of New York's metro cameras for the area surrounding the museum, when she was interrupted.

"Detective Beckett?"

"Yes?" She looked up to see a blond man with blue eyes and an easy grin, wearing a black suit. She saw his holster and knew before he spoke he was a fed.

He flipped out an FBI badge. "Special Agent Dale Maddox."

They shook hands and then she invited him to the opposite chair, "Please. What can I do for the FBI?"

She expected to hear something about how the FBI was going to take the case, since it was likely connected to a larger international theft ring, but instead he said, "I'm part of a counter-terrorism taskforce. And we have automatic flags in the system for when certain persons of interest are run by law enforcement. Can you tell me how you ran across the name of John May?"

Her stomach seized up, and she stared at him, blindsided. "What? I make an inquiry on a guy who killed himself ten years ago, and, near as I can tell was never of interest at all, and you're telling me there's a federal flag on it?"

He smiled perfunctorily. "I know it must seem odd, but we had to play that one close to the chest. Before his death, John May was the leader of an anti-government terrorist organization. That group still uses his name as a rallying cry. So if someone was using his name, they're connected to his organization."

"Oh, I see." She nodded, while thinking quickly. She wanted to believe him -- he was FBI, after all -- but it reeked. An agent showing up the very next day? That was unlikely in her experience, unless there was a mass death involved. Worse, John May was an 'anti-government terrorist'? Those hadn't been anti-government screeds, but exhortations to compassion. If Tom had been a terrorist before, he certainly wasn't one now.

She remembered the flash of distress in his eyes, when she'd offered the cuffs, and how he'd said that his enemies would stop at nothing to get to him. Was Maddox one of them? She could let Tom explain himself first.

So she lifted her chin, smiled slightly, and lied to Agent Maddox. "Well, I had no idea. It's not much I'm afraid . My friend, Richard Castle -- the novelist - do you know of him? -- he works with us, and he told me to check out this blog because he liked the writing. So I did, and then I looked into the name. But the blog didn't seem like it had anything to do with anti-government anything."

"Don't let the pretty words fool you, Detective. We believe it's full of coded messages, sent between May's successors."

"Not May himself?" she asked in surprise. "Are you sure? The body was never recovered, according to the police report."

His smile was unnerving. "It was recovered. He's dead."

She frowned. He seemed so certain. But it gave her less reason to tell him about Tom, if the two weren't the same after all. "Oh, well, that's that, then."

"If you hear anyone else espouse that 'John May Lives' rhetoric, Kate, please let me know. I'll take care of it."

Those words echoed ominously in her ears. She forced a smile and took Maddox' card. "Sure."

She watched him leave, making sure he had cleared the building. Then she went downstairs to find Tom. When he got off the phone, she asked, "Tom, can I talk to you a minute? In private?"

Puzzled but with an eager flash of a smile that suggested he thought he was getting something fun, he rose to follow her. "Sure."

But when he moved to kiss her in the changing room, she held up a hand. "Wait. This is serious."

"Okay," he stopped and looked curious, not worried.

"Does the name Dale Maddox mean anything to you?" she asked and handed him the card.

"FBI?" he raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "No, I don't know him. But Peter didn't tell me they were taking our case, if that's what you're asking."

"No," she shook her head. "He was here to talk to me, because my inquiry into your blog managed to trip a flag on the name of John May."

He stared for a moment, unblinking, and his hands shook. "You... you didn't. You searched for that name? And this guy came to ask about it?"

She nodded.

He flared into sudden anger. "Damn it, I told you to let it go. I warned you. Shit. I have to get out of here--" He started to turn, to head for the door.

She grabbed his shoulder, fearing if she let him get out the door, he'd be gone. "It's okay. I didn't tell him anything about you, and he's gone now. But obviously that's you. Now tell me what the hell's going on, before I regret lying to a fellow law enforcement officer."

He calmed himself down with a deep breath. "He's not FBI," Tom answered, holding up the card. "Or maybe he is, but that's not all he is."

"And I have to take your word for that, when Tom Demming isn't even your real name?" she demanded. "Come on. I need more than that. The FBI thinks your blog is a front for terrorists."

"It's not," he objected immediately.

"Then tell me what this is about."

He considered, barely seeming to breathe as he weighed his options. "All right. But not here."

She half-expected him to make a break for it, after they went out the back of the precinct. But he didn't. If anything he seemed resigned as they walked toward the little park where he bought them coffee from a vendor.

She let him have his minute or two, then prompted, "So? What the hell is going on? You think people are out to kill you, you faked your death and changed your name-- why?"

"People are out to kill me," he corrected and pulled in a breath. "Or they would be, if they knew I was alive."

"But the Feds think you're an anti-government terrorist," she asked.

He snorted a laugh, surprising her. "The Feds don't think I'm anything at all. They're not the problem. Look, Kate, he's right, sort of. I am a leader of a resistance," he admitted, and she had a moment to be shocked, before he turned to her and added earnestly, "I didn't set out to become that, but now I have that obligation because people followed me. But it's not the United States we object to; it's back home we're trying to change. Not our leaders, but our entire way of life. And there are others who want to stop that, at any cost."

She frowned, trying to think of a place he could be talking about. "Where's 'home'?" she asked. "Russia? Iran?"

He turned away. "I can't tell you that. It doesn't matter now; I left and I'm never going back. The blog is my way to keep in contact with those who stayed and try to give them hope. All I want is to live my life my way, and help other people do the same."

"I want to believe you. I do," she said. "I read the blog and that was no kind of anti-government rhetoric I've ever read. Maddox' insistence otherwise was what made me suspicious in the first place. But... it doesn't make sense. There's something big you're not telling me. I have to know. No matter what you did in the past, you need to tell me the rest. If you were some kind of terrorist or assassin or cult leader, or, I don't know, whatever, I need to know it all."

"It's not that easy." He shook his head slowly negative. "If I tell you, you can't go back to how you were before. Knowing this will change everything. I know this makes me sound like a nut, but it's true. This isn't something you can take back or forget about."

"I became a cop because I want the truth," she reassured him. "I can't believe you until I understand."

He blinked slowly, thinking, and then nodded with a look of deep resignation. "All right. But it's easier to show you." Putting his untouched coffee to one side, he slipped out of his jacket and started to unbutton the bottom of his shirt. "When I was shot, it did a little more damage than I admitted." He pulled up the edge of the large bandage on his side. Gritting his teeth, he pushed two fingers deep into the wound.

"Tom, stop it! What are you doing?" she demanded.

He gasped out, "You want the truth? Then look."

She bent down. At first she couldn't figure out what she was seeing -- he was pulling apart his wound and there was some blood and pale tissue... and -- something green. Something completely unnatural.

Something **inhuman**.

"Oh my God," she whispered, staring.

He pulled his fingers out, put the bandage on it again, wincing, and let the shirt fall over it. Then he held up his bloodied fingertips. The red stood in stark contrast to his words. "I'm not human," he admitted softly. "I look human, but I'm not. I'm not the only one of my kind here on Earth either. And someday, very soon, the others will arrive. If they don't learn what I'm trying to teach them, they're going to conquer this planet and destroy it."

She couldn't believe it. She sat there, looking at him, blindsided and stunned by the revelation. She'd expected a story about terrorists, cults, foreign mercenaries, deep cover spying.... hell, the Illuminati was more expected than his being an alien.

"You -- you're not human," she repeated slowly. "You're from another planet?"

He didn't smile, and his gaze rested on her, concerned and somber. "Yes. Another planet."

She was going to reject the whole idea as insanity, but that flash of greenish skin, or whatever it was, underneath made that impossible. It was true.

"My people have very little sense of empathy," he went on. "But we can learn it. I discovered that human emotions make me feel more alive than I had ever felt before. I changed. And others of my race have changed, too, and I've become their leader. But the rest, like Maddox, think I'm a traitor and defective because I want us to be free. They tried to kill me ten years ago, and I barely escaped. I've been hiding ever since."

She fought to understand, and one thing suddenly jumped out at her. "But... but you've been here **years**," she realized. "How long have there been aliens on Earth?"

"We found you decades ago," he answered. "The decision to infiltrate was made about twenty years ago."

Her mouth soundlessly formed 'decades'. There had been aliens on Earth for decades, and no one knew.

"Why? Why are you here? What do you want?"

He glanced up at the sky and answered. "We're a dying race. We came here, even changed ourselves --" he watched his hand flex into a slow fist, as if remembering his hand looking different, "in the hopes of using your genetic diversity to save us."

"And so this outside is just... just a mask?" she demanded, feeling ill at the thought. She'd been intimate with him, had sex with him for heaven's sake and he wasn't human. He was something else, pretending to be human.

He answered calmly, "No, it's not a mask. It's become a part of us. It's real human tissue and skin, cloned and grafted on our own and connected to our nerves. If they catch me, what they'll do is skin it off me alive. It's a very painful way to die."

"Oh. That's horrible." But it made her feel a bit better, that everything wasn't a lie. "You weren't kidding when you said your family were terrible people."

"No, I wasn't. They don't understand humans; they don't want to understand humans. They believe emotions like compassion are primitive and a weakness, not the strength I know they are." He glanced aside, lifted a hand as if he wanted to touch her, and then lowered his hand again with a sigh.

"I understand this is a lot to take in," he murmured. "But I have to plead with you not to tell anyone. Not for my sake alone, but if our presence here goes public, Anna - our leader - will move to outright conquest. It'll be a slaughter, and I have no way to stop her yet."

He stood up and she avoided his eyes, looking down.

"I'll go back to the station and give you some space. I... I'm sorry I ruined everything," he added, sounding regretful and a bit helpless. And he walked away.

She watched him go, and stayed on the bench, sipping at the coffee absently and trying to wrap her head around everything.

That flash of green haunted her thoughts. Aliens. Tom was an alien.

As he had warned, she knew everything had changed. Not only aliens existed, which would be amazing enough, but they were here, pretending to be human. She'd known Tom had _some_ deep, dark secret, but she'd never guessed he wasn't human. Who else did she know who was an alien in disguise?

They'd been here decades, and nobody knew. Worse, there was an invasion planned in the future.

What was she supposed to do about all this? Go back to her ordinary life, be a cop, solve murders, and pretend she didn't know anything?

She inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. That was exactly what she had to do. Tom had warned her. Everything -- the whole world -- had changed. She'd never look at a stranger, or up at the night sky the same way.

And yet...

She tipped her head back and looked at the tall buildings all around her and up to the cloudy sky, imagining the stars beyond that.

She was one of the first humans to learn that humans weren't alone in the universe. And if it was bad news that they weren't all friendly, at least one of them was, and that felt very special that he'd shared the truth with her, when he could've disappeared.

Getting back to her feet, she tossed her coffee cup in the trash bin and went back to work.

* * *

On the second floor, she wound her way past the briefing room and the sergeant's office, to the room that held the rest of the detectives' desks. His desk was off to the side, out of casual view of most of the floor.

He was on his desk phone when she moved around the corner cubicle with one of his files open in front of him, taking notes on a notepad.

There were other case files on the desk, photos of evidence pinned to the side of the cubicle, a calendar, but the only personal items were the plastic dinosaurs on top of his monitor.

He didn't notice her at first, too busy writing down whatever interview he was conducting.

It was a little surreal. Here she was, full to the brim with this amazing new knowledge about what he was, and there he was, talking on the phone like a cop as if nothing had changed.

Before he could've seen or heard her, he straightened as if he could feel her gaze and turned around. His eyes met hers, and he didn't smile, waiting warily for the reason she had sought him out. He was utterly still, and though he was sitting in his desk chair, she knew he was poised to run.

Yet she had absolutely no fear that he would hurt her. She came up to him, hands carefully nowhere near her weapon, and tried to smile that everything was okay. He relaxed enough to turn his head away and finish his conversation on the phone.

As she waited, she read the Gandhi quotation pinned right above his desk: "_A small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission can alter the course of history_."

Now her eyes went to that quote and she understood why it was important to him. That quote had nothing to do with Detective Tom Demming. That quote belonged to the alien resistance leader - 'John May.' He was one of those determined spirits.

But she didn't say any of that when he faced her again. Instead she told him simply, "You didn't." He frowned at her in confusion. "You said you ruined everything. You didn't."

He swallowed. "No?"

"I'm glad you told me," she answered softly, aware of the people nearby and how much she couldn't say in the open.

"You are?"

"I appreciate the risk you took," she reassured him. She leaned closer to murmur in his ear. "You're safe, Tom. Please don't run."

A look of relief washed through his face, and he let out a breath. "Thank you."

Then he lifted his head sharply, as Castle's voice came across the floor: "Demming? Have you seen--?" She straightened and he saw her, her name getting stuck in his mouth. "There you are, Beckett. I've been looking for both of you. That drive is chock-full of what looks like very tedious work, probably best done over beer tonight." He lounged against the end of Tom's desk and picked up the T-Rex to menace the diplodocus, while explaining, "My mother and Alexis will both be out, and it would make more sense to be in a nice place and look through all these files over dinner, don't you think?"

"I -- I don't know--" Tom hesitated, glancing up at her, uncertainly.

"You're invited, too," Castle told him.

"Thanks, but --"

"Do you already have plans?" Castle asked, sounding deflated.

"No, that's not it," she reassured him. "It's -- we should, maybe..." Then she looked at Tom, who was looking at his files with studied indifference to whether she still wanted him around or not.

Taking her uncertainty for no, Tom added, "This isn't my only case, I should probably work on those tonight. Beckett can --"

Her hand found his shoulder and squeezed to stop his words. His shoulder beneath his suit jacket felt like the same muscle and bone she'd felt before she knew the truth. It didn't feel alien, though she'd expected to feel something different. But it was only her perceptions that were different -- he was still the same. "No. This is our case; we all work it together."

Castle's eyes darted between them, obviously sensing something else going on, but he showed surprising discretion and merely put the dinosaurs back and brushed his hands on his pants. "Okay, then, that sounds good. I'll go make extra copies of the files and take them to my place. Come over when you're ready."

"We'll see you later," she told him.

When he was gone, Tom offered quietly, looking at the notepad filled with his scrawling notes, "I can probably get Peter to take the case for us. Then it'll be off our lists, and we can go our separate ways. I know this is ... strange for you, so I'll do whatever you want, to make it easier."

She considered. It would be easier, certainly: get Tom out of her life, forget everything he'd told her, and go back to her normal life. But thinking about it, she didn't want to go back to that life, even if she could.

She perched on the edge of his desk and nudged his chair with her foot to turn it in her direction. "Look, I don't know what I want, right now. But I do know it feels wrong to chase you away when I'm the one who pushed for the truth. So let's take it slow and give me a chance to know you - the real you."

His head lifted to look at her and a slow smile formed on his face. It was pleased, but also a little stunned, as if he hadn't expected her to say any of that. "Deal. I've got to write this up," he gestured to his notes, "for another case. But then we can head over to Castle's."

She agreed and left him to wander back upstairs. She stopped in the doorway to look at the case board, wondering for a moment if any of it mattered when there was an alien downstairs and aliens in the FBI and more aliens on the way. A couple of stolen paintings and a murdered security guard seemed so **ordinary**.

"You wanted to know, Beckett," she muttered. "And now you know."

"Beckett?" Esposito asked from the hall. When she turned, he frowned a little. "You okay?"

She tried to smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. Heading out."

He didn't seem fully convinced. "You and Demming - you've got a thing, right?"

"We do," then she remembered the betting pool and smiled. "So who won?"

"Lanie," he answered, but he didn't smile, still looking concerned. "It's going good?"

There were so many possible answers to that, she couldn't find one at first. '_It was good right up until I found out he was from another planet_'? No, she couldn't say that. "I... yeah, it's good. We're going over to Castle's place to work on the case some more."

Esposito frowned as if he wanted to say more, but he let it go with a nod. "Okay, then, g'night."

She gathered up her things to leave for the day, including the case files and Sophie's thumb drive, and went down to meet Tom.

He was talking to Sergeant Martinez about the Knicks, and she listened, bemused by the thought of aliens being sports fans. But he noticed her and met her by the front desk. "I'm ready. Taxi or walk?"

"Walk," she answered. "Then we can talk."

Evening had fallen, but the street was still crowded with people heading home and shopping. Tom fell into step with her, quietly waiting while she wondered what to ask.

Finally, one question bubbled to the surface. "Does anybody else know?"

He slanted a look at her. "You're the first human I've told. I didn't expect it to go so well, actually," he admitted.

She took that in, for a few moments. She was the only person in more than ten years to know the truth?

She tucked her hand around his arm and he looked at it in such surprise, she had to smile and shake her head at him. "Come on, did you expect me to freak out? I admit it's sort of blowing my mind, but I'm not going to run and scream in terror because there's an alien around. I've been to racial sensitivity training, you know," she joked. His smile looked a little tentative, as if he doubted she was okay with this, so she leaned into his arm to stop him and said more seriously, looking into his face, "Thank you for telling me the truth."

"Thank you for not running and screaming in terror," he replied, wryly.

"I could never do that," she reassured him. "I believe you're trying to do the right thing. Hell, you're a better human being than a lot of humans I've met. And that's what matters to me."

Thinking about it more, there was one main thing that bothered her. "Would you ever have told your wife?" she asked. "Or me, if I hadn't pushed for it?"

"No," he admitted. "Probably not. I want to live as a human, with humans, and the only way to do that is to pretend the rest of it doesn't exist." He let out a short sigh. "I know it's a lie. I do, and I knew it wouldn't last. But still, a short time like this is better than a whole lifetime like them."

"But most of your people don't agree with that."

"No. We're capable of so much more, but our society is already under such pressure, the idea of greater change is frightening. Not to mention the thought of learning anything from you is appalling to some, when they think of humans as lesser animals."

The more she found out about his people, the more she was horrified and worried for her own. "Lesser animals?" she repeated. "Like pets?"

He thought about that for a moment and shook his head. "Some call you 'mammals'. It's not a compliment. Like humans call each other 'pig' or 'cow'," he explained. "They think of you as lower on the food chain because you're what we eat."

Her eyes widened in horror and she felt cold. "You eat humans?"

"No, no!" he corrected hastily, "that's not what I meant. We eat other mammals, not humans." Then he reconsidered and had to admit, "Though I suppose it's possible. There's no prohibition against it. Life has no value to my people. We kill each other with little qualm, and Anna would nuke this whole planet if she thought it was necessary. That's what I want to change. But for food, we prefer our mammals much smaller and fed on grains, not Twinkies."

He said it so deliberately, she knew it was a clue to something. Then she realized. "Oh, my God, don't tell me you eat those mice you keep in your place?" His face was enough, as his expression flickered with humor. Her lip curled in disgust. "Now, that's gross."

He grinned. "Come on, after a hard day of work, don't you want to kick back with a beer and a mouse?"

She stared at him and couldn't decide if he was joking or not. She decided he wasn't. "Ew. Of course not."

"Too bad. They're **delicious**," he retorted with relish, and licked his lips. Then he laughed at her when she pretended to gag.

She decided she didn't want to know if he cooked them first or not. He was messing with her enough, as it was.

But her knowing the truth had let him relax, and she thought about how rarely he could be himself with anyone.

Then they were at the entrance to Castle's building, and as the doorman let them in, she glanced at Tom.

He smiled and nudged her shoulder with his own as they entered the elevator. She elbowed him, smiling back. For a moment, all thoughts of nasty aliens were far away.


	6. Chapter 6

Castle let them in to his place. From the entrance Tom could see a wide open space with the kitchen area to the left, and a living area with big windows open to the city as dusk swept across the buildings. It gave him the same feeling as the Atrium on the ship with its view of the interior core. He didn't mind cozy human spaces, but wide halls and open rooms seemed more restful.

"Come in," Castle greeted them, managing not to look too disappointed to see Tom following Kate in.

There was a teenage girl with long reddish hair and a friendly smile standing there as well, already wearing a coat. She gave a hug to Kate and then turned to Tom and her eyes widened a bit.

Castle introduced, "Detective Tom Demming, my daughter Alexis."

"Pleased to meet you, Alexis." He smiled at Alexis, who stared and ducked her head, looking embarrassed.

"Hi, Detective Demming," she answered, glancing up at him shyly, then her eyes flickered with a realization and she turned to look at Castle and say in a tone of outrage, "Dad!"

He looked a little sheepish under her regard.

Tom watched and grinned. She was so adorable.

"She's on her way out." Castle explained hurriedly, to cut off any potential questions, and slung an arm over her shoulder and coaxed her to the door. "Have a good time, sweetheart."

"Sure, Dad." She gave him a hug, glancing at Tom over Castle's shoulder with a smile, and then left.

They had such a close, obviously loving relationship, and it was beautiful to watch. He wished he was jealous of it, but all he could do was stare after her and wish vainly that he had a relationship like that with Lisa.

Castle noticed he was still looking her way, said, "She's way too young for you, Demming."

He started. "What? No! Oh my goodness, no. I was thinking about my daughter."

"Daughter?" Castle and Beckett said it simultaneously.

"You have a daughter?" Beckett added. "You didn't mention her."

"She's with her mother," he answered. "I haven't seen her since she was little. She'd be about Alexis' age." And she likely didn't know he was her father at all.

Castle frowned. "You don't have visitation?" Implicit in the question was 'what did you do to deserve that?'

Which irritated him, because the only thing he had done to deserve it was try to do good, and he explained shortly, "They don't live in this country." He saw the moment the reason dawned on Beckett's face about what he was talking about, and she cut off Castle before he could indulge his curiosity some more.

"C'mon, Castle, do you have beer so we can work this case, or not?" she asked, heading deliberately for his kitchen area.

Castle got them drinks, still shooting curious looks at Tom.

They were gathered around the kitchen island, and Tom was trying the salsa, when Castle asked, "So, about Berger's shooting. Esposito told me CSU found blood on the bullet."

Tom paused, keeping his face blank. If they tested the blood they might find something more than human in it, but most probably no one would bother, since it was clear who it came from. "Yeah, turned out it grazed me. Why?"

Castle shrugged with an innocent, puzzled look on his face. "You didn't notice?"

Tom shrugged. "Not 'til later. I thought it had burned me." The salsa was good but the tortilla chips were unpalatable. Why the hell did a man with Castle's money have these over-processed, preserved ones? Disappointed, he moved on to the peanuts, searching for something he would like among the snacks Castle had put out.

"We're here to discuss the robbery, not Tom getting shot at," Kate said firmly. "I've been through it three times with IA. I'm done. Where are the files?"

Castle passed the papers around. "These are e-mails. This stack are all the payouts from the account that paid Berger. And this stack traces the sources of incoming deposits."

Kate took some and shoved the rest to Castle. "Check for large sums coming in and going out, especially to accounts here in the States. They would've needed some kind of seed money or a deposit."

Tom pulled the e-mails to himself. "Let me see if any names are familiar to me. I know a few shady collectors and fences."

They all set to work with pens and paper for notes and highlighters for marking things of interest. Unfortunately, Tom didn't find any obvious names and had to go back through to read the e-mails.

Tom wasn't the only one who was glad to hear the phone on the wall beep, promising a change from the tedium. Kate stretched out her back and let out a breath.

Castle popped off his chair. "I believe dinner has arrived. Just wait," he promised them, "I got Luigi's on 37th to deliver to us. I figure everyone likes Italian, right, Demming?"

"I'm not a big fan of pasta, but I'll eat it," Tom answered and smirked at Castle. "I'll say extra nice things about you while I'm working off all the carbs."

He could tell by the smile on Kate's lips that she was remembering the mouse. The revelation that her boyfriend was an alien and ate rodents for treats had gone much better than he had expected. He doubted all human women would be quite so understanding though.

Castle opened the door to accept the delivery. "Here's the--" After a brief pause, he demanded, "Hey, where's the food?"

Tom's head snapped up as a familiar scent touched his nose. He stood up and headed for the door. Kate noticed his reaction and followed.

The "delivery" man slammed Castle into his own door, hand on his throat. "Tell me what you know of John May."

"What? Get off! You idiot, I have two cops here -- " Castle said through his strangled throat.

Tom used the command voice, ordering, "Release him!"

Reflexively the worker obeyed. And as soon as Castle was free, Castle punched the attacker in the face. It barely rocked him and then Castle was flung by the neck and jacket into the kitchen.

"Castle!" Beckett cried, but she didn't move to tend him.

The attacker ignored her and turned to smile when he saw who was there. "John May. You're alive. Anna will be pleased." He stepped nearer to Tom and warned in cold threat, "If you fight me, I'll kill them both."

Tom glanced at his holster, which was next to his suit jacket on the couch, wishing he'd never taken it off. Damn it. He didn't want to fight in front of Kate or especially Castle, but this one was probably a tracker-guard and he wasn't going to be convinced to go away whether Tom had his gun or not.

The guard reached into his pocket. A gunshot cracked through the air and he staggered, red blood blooming in his lower torso. Beckett was in a firing stance, her gun unwavering. "Get back, you son of a bitch."

A small glowing sphere dropped from the guard's hand and fell to the floor. It was a comm device, and the glow meant the connection was open. He was out of time.

"Kate, destroy it. It'll bring others!" As he shouted, he moved, rushing the guard and shoving him back through the door, across the corridor, and into the opposite wall.

The agent hit him, hard in the ribs. And tried to punch him in the face, but Tom ducked aside and slammed his elbow into the back of his enemy's neck.

Tom felt the fighting rage rising and fought it down. Not here. They couldn't fight here where anyone might see or where Kate or Castle might be in danger. He spun free of the agent's grabbing hands and sprinted down the hallway.

He pushed through the emergency stairs, the agent only a half step behind. He leapt down the stairs three at a time, using the banister to pull himself through the turns, moving on pure instinct as fast as he could. It lasted for almost five floors until a heavy body hit him in the back and sent them both flying downward.

He hit with a hard thump, rolling the last few steps, to the landing, with his attacker half on top of him. Breath knocked from him, pain stabbing him in the side, he lay there for a moment stunned. The worker also seemed a little overcome and didn't move at first. Then he shook his head once and reached for Tom's throat. "You will die," he snarled. "Traitor."

Tom got his hands up between, pulling them apart, and then bashing their foreheads together. Then he got his arm across the worker's throat and force him to the side, so he could scramble to his feet.

He was panting through his teeth, trying to hold onto the rage and telling himself, not here, not yet. The staircase was a confined space with uncertain footing; he had to wait. But it was hard, keeping back the urge to fight him to the death.

He kicked the attacker where Kate had shot him, to slow him, and started running down the stairs again.

There was another person on the stairs -- a woman in running gear, going back up to her apartment. Tom slowed only long enough to make sure she wasn't another attacker and then said, "Police! Move!"

She moved to one side just in time, as he slid past.

He considered heading out at the ground floor, but that would mean more people around. But the stairs continued down to the basement, so he kept going.

Slamming through the door so hard it crashed against the wall behind it, he ran into the basement corridor and smelled for any humans nearby. It seemed empty.

"Coward!" the worker hissed. "Stand and fight."

Tom turned slowly, to see the tracker standing before the door to the stairwell.

"I don't want to kill you," Tom said. But he knew he was going to have to; if this tracker tried to walk away, Tom would have to kill him to stop him from communicating to the mothership. They were both equally wounded already, which should leave Tom with the advantage of strength and speed, though he hadn't fought any of his own kind in a very long time.

The worker smirked. "Then you'll come with me to Anna?"

"No."

"Then we fight and you go to her anyway, if I have to drag your body to lie at her feet." He pulled out one of the guard weapons, and its narrow blade glinted in the flickering fluorescent overheads.

Tom saw it and let himself smile. "Anna herself couldn't kill me. What makes you think you can?"

The humanity of 'Tom Demming' slipped away as he changed his stance. The cold fury filled his body, rising through him like a wave that washed away every pain and every other thought but the fight. It was time.

 

* * *

 

Though momentarily shocked that her shot had barely slowed the invader down, Tom's shout as he body slammed the invader back out of the apartment, roused her back to movement.

Kate glanced down at the small glowing ball, rolling toward the kitchen. Some kind of locator device? Something alien, for sure.

"What the --?" Castle stirred and rubbed at his throat.

"That thing, crush it! I'm going to back up Tom." Trusting Castle to do it, though he didn't understand what was going on, she ran into the hall. Behind her she heard a sharp thump and crackling noise.

Tom was already gone down the emergency stairs, and she started after, gun ready as she hurried. She could hear something crash several floors down and wished the stairs had an opening down the middle so she could see and maybe shoot the attacker again. Maybe torso shots weren't all that damaging, but surely a shot in the head would bring him down.

Castle was on the floor above now. "Beckett!"

"Stay out of this!" she shouted, but heard him following anyway. "Damn it, Castle!" But she was in too much of a hurry to make him stop, worried about what that other guy might do to Tom.

It got quiet in the stairwell, as a door banged shut down below, and she didn't hear the sound of hurrying steps down below anymore. She slowed to listen.

Castle caught up. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded in a whisper, behind her.

"You don't want to know," she said, knowing it wasn't true. "Stay back."

At the ground floor she paused, wondering if they'd left here, but then something banged beneath them.

"Basement," Castle whispered.

She went down the last flight and held out her hand to make Castle stay put. He nodded his agreement, looking worried but also a little too fever bright as if he had some inkling what was going on.

Then, cautiously, she pulled the basement door open a crack. Her eyes widened. Castle pressed close to her shoulder to watch as well.

The attacker had a knife - an odd weapon with a long handle and a short blade - but Tom dodged and struck like a viper, knocking it away from attacker's hand so it went spinning against the wall. They clashed again - striking and whirling so quickly she could barely keep track. Yet she could tell Tom was better and merely waiting for his moment.

The attacker seemed to realize it, too. His eyes darted toward his weapon, but it was past Tom and out of his reach. He backed away and his face held the realization that he was in trouble. Tom stalked forward, and though she couldn't see his face, she heard his voice, vicious and mocking, "Did no one tell you, little one? I'm a defender, not a soldier and never a drone. You were the dead the second you attacked my friends."

The attacker put up a fight when he was cornered, slashing his hands at Tom, but Tom was quicker and lethal. He slammed the attacker in the ribs with his right hand and then, in an impossibly quick motion with his left, tore out his throat with his bare hand.

She gasped. Blood fountained up, and she had a glimpse of green tissue and white bone, and then the corpse fell to the floor with a wet thunk.

Breathing hard, Tom let the chunk of flesh fall on top of the body and stood there, unmoving for a long moment. Then he asked, cool as ice, without looking away from the body. "Tell me you destroyed the sphere?''

Next to her Castle jerked like a guilty kid and pushed past her through the door. "I, uh, crushed it with the fruit bowl. What the hell was that? What's going on?" Tom didn't answer at first, and Castle went closer. "Oh my God. I did see it. He has claws."

That stirred her out of her astonishment and horror. Castle was right -- somehow, though the guy had normal hands upstairs when he'd been menacing Castle, he now sported sharp-looking and clearly alien nails on each finger.

Tom glanced at her and then at his bloodied hand. His apology sounded perfunctory, as if all the emotion had leached from his voice. "Sorry. I wish you hadn't seen that."

She kind of wished she hadn't either, but at the same time, she was glad. For that small time the fight had lasted, he hadn't fought like a human - not like the man she'd sparred with -- and there was something both frightening and exhilarating about seeing something so blatantly alien.

Castle came to the same conclusion. "He's not human, not with those claws, which means you aren't either. Are you?"

"No," Tom answered flatly. "I'm not. I came to this planet about fifteen years ago."

"You're an alien," Castle said, sounding as if it was the most exciting news he'd had in a very long time. When she glanced at him, he was grinning in a sort of excited, yet overwhelmed way. "An actual alien. But you look so human. How is that possible?"

"We're not that different," Tom answered, still in that oddly distant, tired voice, staring at the body. "That's why we're here. It was easy enough to graft on human skin and look like you. We're considerably more advanced technologically."

"We?" Castle repeated. "How many are there?"

"Many. And many more on the way. If word gets out, and our presence goes public, Earth will be conquered, enslaved, and culled and there is nothing your nuclear devices or your military can do, except get more humans killed. Because if there's one thing we excel at, it's being relentless and cruel."

"Oh." That quelled Castle's excitement for a moment.

Tom bent down to wipe the blood on the corpse's clothes. She saw his shirt was slashed across the back by those claws, leaving bloodied trails. "Hey, you okay?" she asked. "It looks like he got a couple good hits on you."

He took a deep breath, shaking his head to try to free himself from whatever alien version of adrenaline had been running through him. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, Beckett shot that guy and it didn't slow him down at all. Damn." Then Castle jerked his head up. "You did get shot at Berger's place, didn't you? So your kind is that much tougher, huh? And, um, obviously compatible..." he mused and then trailed off as Kate glared at him.

Tom stood up, shaking himself again, and finally the emotion returned to his voice when he turned to Castle with a frown. "How the hell did he find you?" Tom demanded. "He seemed to think you were connected to the resistance, not that you knew me. So I don't think anyone saw us together."

Then Kate squeezed her eyes shut, realizing what she'd done. "It was my fault. When Maddox talked to me, I told him Castle had turned me onto your blog. I thought his being a writer was easier to explain how I'd looked at it. I never thought they'd wonder why Castle was looking at the blog. God, I'm sorry."

Tom grimaced and let out a resigned sigh. "It was only a matter of time. Does this building have an incinerator?"

"An incinerator?" Castle repeated blankly.

"To burn the body," Tom repeated shortly, as if Castle was trying his patience. "I need to dispose of it."

"Um, I think so? I don't come down here very often..."

It turned out the building did, and Kate felt very guilty as she watched the two stuff the dead body in. It felt wrong to be hiding the evidence, but she stood in front of the door so no one could come in, and held her tongue.

She had asked to be part of Tom's secret, and now she was. There was no turning back.

 

* * *

 

They returned upstairs after the body was ash and charred bone fragments. The fire had burned hotter than Kate thought it should, at least for a human body, but it made pretty quick work of the corpse.

Tom was wary and tense when the elevator doors opened, holding his attacker's bladed weapon at his side, and Kate kept her gun out, thumb on the safety. But there was no one there and when Tom sniffed at Castle's open apartment door, he said, "No one's here. Yet." He went in and checked the smashed little ball, dumping the fragments into the trash compactor.

Castle locked the door. "So. Anyone want beer?"

Kate accepted gratefully and popped the lid.

"You have anything stronger?" Tom asked, and when Castle held up a bottle of Scotch as if to ask if that was okay, Tom took it from him and gulped it like a bottle of water. Then, noticing the other two staring, he stopped and explained, "It takes a lot and I've had one hell of a day."

"You know that's 18-year-old Macallan, right?" Castle demanded. "That you're drinking like water?"

Tom glanced at the label. "It's nice. Thank you." Castle glanced at her, hoping she would intervene, and she snickered, not sure who was more amusing -- Tom with his deliberate obliviousness or Castle's horror at the casual way Tom was disposing of his expensive whisky.

Tom swallowed some more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighing. "They're going to track the link after he doesn't report in, and I can't be here when they come investigate. They'll probably send their FBI agents to talk to you about John May and why you're reading his evil terrorist manifest of a blog."

"'John May'? That other guy mentioned that name. He's you?" Castle gestured them over to the couches.

"Alien resistance leader," Kate answered for him. "FBI claims he's a terrorist, but only because the FBI is apparently overrun by alien agents working for the bad guys."

Tom glanced at her, looking amused by her summary, then explained more fully for Castle, "My name - my old name - is something of a symbol to my people." Still holding the bottle, he sprawled back in the sofa, looking relaxed, while Castle perched on the edge of his chair, hardly able to sit still. "I was the first to start being open to human experience and human emotions like love and empathy, in part because my love for Lisa - my daughter -- had already opened the door. I started to gather the others who believed as I did, forming the Fifth Column. Ten years ago I faked my own death and went underground among humans to wait for the Arrival. I knew I wasn't going to last if they kept hunting me."

"That... is so weird, how you slip into calling us 'humans'," Castle said.

Tom shrugged, looking distinctly unbothered, though she wondered how much of that was the half-bottle of liquor he'd dumped down his throat. "You know the truth; I don't have to pretend."

Thinking back to the fight, she asked, with a smile, "When we sparred, you were totally humoring me, weren't you?"

He flashed a grin and teased, "It felt too good to stop early. At least, up until the part where you almost broke my arm." She chuckled, pleased that she'd taken him by surprise at all, after seeing him fight. Then he added, "But really, I can only do that," he waved his bottle in the general direction of the door, "when I fight to the death. We call it the defender's rage, and it lets us fight without feeling pain or, much of anything, except the desire to kill. The soldiers are like that all the time." The grin slipped away for a more troubled face, and he drank some more from the bottle before continuing, "It's been a long time since I've had to use it. I forgot how empty and awful it feels to butcher my own people." He toyed with the alien weapon, and it turned out to be like a switchblade, able to telescope and flip out the blade, then collapsing itself again down to something not much larger than a pen.

"So, what are they called?" Castle asked curiously.

Tom opened his mouth and... something came out. It sort of sounded like a 'Viss" and maybe a click and something else, and she knew she had no hope of pronouncing it in this lifetime, no matter how many times he said it. Then he smiled at their goggle eyes and added dryly, "Or 'Vs' for short." He drained the bottle, put it on the side table, and stood up, with an air of making a decision. "I've got to get going. It's harder than you might think to disappear."

The words slammed into her like a bullet to the chest. "Wait. What? You mean you're leaving town?" Kate demanded. "Now?"

He nodded. "I think I have to. I'm sorry you two'll bear the brunt of the investigation. Make up whatever story you want - I'm sure Castle can help come up with something."

"Uh, sure," Castle said, sounding both surprised and flattered. "I can do that."

"Good. Thank you." He held out his hand, and Castle shook it automatically, then looked down at their joined hands and didn't seem to want to let go.

"Are you sure you have to go now?" Castle asked, disappointed. "I have so many questions--"

Tom smiled a little. "I'm sure. But you know enough to put you in danger already. And I have to ask you to keep it to yourself. If they find out I'm alive after all, they won't stop hunting me. And I still need time."

"I understand. And I will. Keep it secret, I mean," Castle promised, looking as serious as Kate had ever seen him. "Take care of yourself, Demming."

"You, too." Tom reholstered his gun, shrugged his suit jacket back on, and put the alien blade in his pocket. Then he glanced at Kate with his eyebrows up in a silent question.

"I'm coming. I'll see you later, Castle." She gathered up her things and followed Tom out the door.

They both watched for anyone paying them too much attention as they left Castle's building, but as far as she could tell there was no one watching them, and Tom didn't appear to sense anything unusual.

Nevertheless, he didn't relax until they'd walked three blocks away and turned the corner to head toward her building. She couldn't find anything to say. Her feelings were all tangled; she didn't know if she could continue where they'd left off, since it was freaky to think she'd been sleeping with someone from another planet, but she didn't want him to go because she also wondered if she could get over it. As much as his inner alien nature was still a shock, it also made her curious and want to know more.

"You're sure you can't stay?" she asked, without much hope of a positive answer.

"I wish I could," he answered, stopping in front of a closed shop window and turning to face her with regret. "But they're too close. All it would take is for one of them come to the station to talk to you and run across me. Not all of them know what I look like, but enough do."

"So transfer out of our precinct."

He shook his head. "No, without this, it would be something else. I've barely been able to avoid the media as is. Bit by bit I've become too public, and with agents building up for the Arrival, I have to move. But in any case, I don't think I have time to waste on day jobs anymore. I have to be John May again."

She nodded and let out a soft sigh. "I know. I wish you didn't."

"Me, too. So much." His fingers brushed her cheek gently, as if that was all he dared to do, now that she knew the truth. But Kate wasn't going to let that be her last memory of him -- she wasn't frightened of him, and they'd been far more intimate than that already.

She reached around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. As always, their lips met in a perfect match of heat, and his hands clasping her waist made her want his touch elsewhere. She pressed into him, hoping to give him something to remember when he was gone.

Then with breathy sighs, they pulled back a little, to rest their heads together. Her fingers caressed through the short hair at the back of his neck. "Be safe," she wished him. "And if you need anything, you call me, and I'll do whatever I have to, to help you."

He nodded his thanks and one of his hands cradled the side of her face, with his thumb caressing her cheek. "All these years since I left Lily, I never dared to get close to anyone," he murmured, "until you. You reminded me of passion and love again. I would stay if I could, but I need to help my people feel this, too."

"I understand." She wished she didn't, then she could say goodbye and not know he was going into a war. "Will I see you again?"

"I hope so," he answered, and that might not be the answer she wanted, but it was honest. He kissed her lips once more and then he pulled back, trying for a smile. "At least I get to say good bye this time."

Then he turned to head down the street. Kate watched, thinking what an incredibly lonely a life it had to be-- an alien on Earth, trying to fit in, trying to be human, and hunted by his own kind who didn't want to believe in love or kindness or compassion.

She blurted, "Hey!"

He turned with an raised eyebrow and curious half-smile.

And she said deliberately, knowing everything that it meant to him and to his cause, "John May Lives."

The half-smile broadened to a grin that perversely made her own heart lighter, though she was trying to help _him_. Then he raised a hand to her in farewell, turned back, and walked away. He was soon swallowed up by the crowd, but she watched long after she couldn't see him anymore.

 

* * *

**Epilogue**

 

Three days later, in Castle's place, at his dining table, he poured her a glass of wine and then flopped down on the chair across from her. "Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?" he demanded rhetorically. "A real _alien_. I met an actual space alien, something my colleagues would kill for, and I can't talk about it."

She narrowed her eyes at him and pointed. "Not anyone. If word spread around, they'd know he wasn't dead, and that's the only thing keeping him alive. And Tom might be the only thing that will save us, if this invasion happens."

"I know, I know," he agreed with a groan. "But it's so exciting. Heroic resistance fighter, bad aliens-- like it's from a book. Or a movie. Kind of like Starman, and you're Karen Allen. You're not pregnant, are you?" he asked suddenly.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Please. But it's going to get a whole lot less fictional if the arrival happens."

"I know. But still. Beckett, do you realize we are some of the first people on this entire planet who now know for a fact that we are not alone in the universe? There are aliens among us. I..." he paused, drank some wine and continued more quietly, "I can't believe it happened to me. There was an alien resistance leader posing as a cop in our precinct." He grinned with delight. "'Alien resistance leader'. That's so awesome."

She smiled at his boyish excitement, but her thoughts went to Tom's abandoned apartment, and to him, wherever he was. In a single day he'd resigned from the force, taken Tom's money, and vanished. She hadn't even seen him. She had checked the blog, but it hadn't changed.

Castle's enthusiasm faded for concern. "How're you doing? It must be a weird thing, finding out your boyfriend's a space alien."

Her lips twitched, amused. "I'm... all right," she answered after a moment, twirling the stem of the glass in her fingers. "It happened so fast. I barely know what to feel about any of it. But I can tell you it's not everyday I get the "it's not you, it's me" speech from resistance fighters from outer space." She smiled as Castle chuckled. But as she sipped at her wine, she turned her eyes toward the city and the horizon. "I just wish I knew he was okay."

A week later, she was sorting her mail when a postcard fell out. When she picked it up, she saw it was a picture of a little green alien with big black eyes, wearing board shorts, surfing. She laughed and turned it over, eager to see the message.

The postmark was New Jersey. The message was hand-written and unsigned: _Thank you for believing in me_.

She taped the card to her monitor. It was still there when Castle plopped two inches of paper on her desk, two months later.

"Let me guess, Naked Heat?" she asked with a resigned sigh.

"No," he said, grinning excitedly. "I've been doing this at night. Look."

She looked. The title page read: "The Arrival, by R. Castle." She thumbed through it, seeing 'Jack August' was the name of the main character. It took her a moment and then her eyes widened in alarm. "Castle! You didn't!"

"I did," he answered smugly. "But don't worry, it's a novel. I'm branching out into sci-fi." He slouched against her desk, arms folded and grinned at her. "A rebel alien comes to Earth to help the humans prepare to fight his own kind before they come here to kick our ass." He glanced around to make sure no one else was around and leaned forward to say more seriously, "Look, I don't carry a gun, but this? Writing? I can do that. I can warn people they're not coming here in peace, but also that some of them are trying to help us. And you know the best part? I'm going to release it in paid installments on the website. Publisher's having a cow, but that was the only way to get it out in time. But I'll only do it, if you read it and sign off on it first."

He looked hopeful and a little wary as he waited for her response. She smiled slowly and nodded her agreement. "You'll drop it if I think you're risking his life?"

"Promise," he answered, somberly. "I want to help."

"All right, then. I'll read it tonight."

He was in the doorway when he turned around, smiling with delight. "Oh! I should emphasize that Kara isn't you, Beckett. At all. In any way. Especially the pregnant-by-an-alien-fugitive part." Then, chortling, he ducked out the door into the corridor, ignoring her exasperated cry of his name.

"Castle!" She threw a pencil after him to make sure he stayed out of her way until tomorrow.

She took the postcard home with her, propping it up against her lamp to glance at and smile, as she read Castle's manuscript.

But it turned out digital publishing wasn't fast enough. She hadn't finished the novel when the building began to shake violently, and a deafening roar filled the air. As the shaking subsided, she went to her window and saw the giant alien spacecraft hovering above the city.

The day had come. They had arrived.

She wondered where Tom was and hoped he was still safe.

Like everyone else on the planet, Kate looked up at the alien leader's projected face on the underside of the huge ship and listened to her words:

"_We are of peace. Always_."

But unlike everyone else, the view brought her little sense of awe, only anger and defiance. Kate murmured under her breath to Anna, "Never peace. I know what you are. I know what you want. But John May lives, bitch, and he's not alone."

 

_fin._

* * *

 

Comments always welcome! Thanks for reading.


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